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She mumbles a thanks as she scurries from the room. Not five minutes later, I hear the bath running. I scrub my hand down my face before I scrub the dishes clean. Then I call my mom. By the time Faye pulls the drain, I’ve got the crib mostly built. Though, when I mentioned needing to build the crib to my mom, she told me we’d need a bassinet for the first six months.

That’s officially been added to my mental list, and I’m thankful Mom is getting Dad on board with me and Faye, because it’s not about to change any time soon—and I fucking need my mom. Clearly.

The bathroom door cracks open and my heart flutters. I focus on the crib, keeping my eyes downcast as Faye enters her room, stopping when she finds me.

“Oh.” Surprise turns to something else when she adds, “Oh. It’s so pretty, Tate.”

I don’t think I’d call the crib pretty, but—my eyes lift to her and my thoughts stutter. Faye is in nothing but a towel. Her peach-colored skin is tinged pink from the bath and shit, but she’s pretty.

“Yeah.” I clear the croak from my throat with a cough. “It’s a nice crib.”

“Thanks for building it.”

“No problem.”

“Sorry about earlier.” She moves to her bed, sitting on the edge still wrapped in only the towel. There’s a small bump at her belly, but I thought she’d be bigger by now.

She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I look back down. “I spoke with my mom.”

“Oh?”

“She says your parents are down to do Christmas together if you’re up for it.”

“And Herman?”

“My dad is coming around.”

She bites into her lower lip, thinking. Then she asks, “Do you think—do you think⁠—”

When her words fail, I tell her, “Mom says Holt’s not coming this year.”

She nods, but her shoulders fall in what I think might be relief. Or maybe it’s disappointment. I can’t be sure.

I have to know. “Does that upset you?”

Her eyes slam into mine, stealing my breath. Finally, she shakes her head. “No.”

I dip my chin, standing. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

She nods, but says nothing as I walk for the door. I stop when I get there, turn, and let my eyes connect with hers again. Like they always do, they cut to the quick of me. Deep down where all my dreams and desires reside.

It’s the first time in years I’ve felt safe to let those dreams free. To not feel like a bastard for the fact they’re there at all.

“I’ll make hot chocolate,” I tell her, because I’m not ready to call it a night just yet.

I’m not ready for her to close this door that sits between us to hide beneath her covers and cry her guilty tears.

So, I don’t wait for her reply. I don’t wait for her to tell me that she’s going to skip hot chocolate for sleep she won’t sleep.

I just close her door on whatever excuse that dares to rise and head for the kitchen. I flip the switch on the kettle and add chocolate powder to her favorite mug—a purple one with little white daisies on it.

Then I wait.

19

SWEET DREAMS