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Twenty-Eight
Wes
We usher a very embarrassed Emma out of the house, promising to fill her in on everything later. Then Devon turns back toward the kitchen, with me following on his heels.
“So, you love me, hey?” I call after him, practically skipping.
Devon cants his head around, arching an eyebrow at me. “Technically, I didn’t actually name you. You simply made the assumption.”
I catch up with him in the kitchen, crowding him back against the pantry door. “Come on, admit it. Youloovveeme.”
“Right now, I’m struggling to see why,” he says dryly.
The corner of my mouth quirks up, my hands coming to rest at his waist. “It’s because I’m incredible, and amazing, and you just can’t get enough of me.”
“You forgot modest,” he says with an eye roll. He lets out a sigh of resignation. “Alright, fine. Yes, for some reason that I’m finding absolutely impossible to fathom, I’ve managed to fall in love with you.”
I smile. “Ditto.”
Devon screws his face up. “Hell no. You’re not getting out of this by ripping offGhost.Say it back properly!”
I groan. “Do I really have to?”
“Yes, you really have to,” he says, eyes narrowed.
“Okay, okay.” I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself. “I sort of…maybe…”
“Sort of…maybe?” Devon echoes, clearly unimpressed.
“Okay, fine! I love you,” I blurt out. “There we go—don’t expect me to ever say it again.”
“Wow, that was so romantic,” he deadpans. “But don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I got it the first time.” He holds up his phone and presses play on a recording app. I feel mortification rushing through me as my words are played back.
I glare at him. “I hate you.”
He just chuckles, his lips formed into a teasing smirk. “No, you don’t. Got the proof right here.”
I make a grab for the phone but he’s too quick, ducking under my arm and tossing the phone on the island bench before pushing me backward so that nowI’mthe one pinned against the pantry.
“You are the most horrible person in the world,” I growl.
He just smiles. “And yet you love me anyway.”
I let out a soft chuckle and press my lips to his. Yeah, I do love him; but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever admit that out loud again—sneaky bastard.
The next morning, we meet Emma for brunch at the patisserie near Devon’s place.
“I’ve been eating French pastries for months,” she says wryly as we take our seats. “Some good old English food would have been fine.”
“First of all—there’s no need to rub it in,” I say with narrowed eyes. “Secondly, you can’t eat half the stuff at other places now that you’re preggers. And thirdly—”
“He wants a pain au chocolat,” Devon finishes for me.
“Three. I want three of them,” I correct. “At least. Have you seen them? They’re bloody tiny.”
“When you end up in a diabetic coma, which one of us gets to decide when to pull the plug?” Devon asks, gesturing between himself and Emma.
My brows shoot up at that. “Wow. You say that with such relish. I don’t know whether to be turned on or freaked out.”
