Page 137 of Let You Love Me

“Yeah?”

“Breathe,” I remind her.

“Right. Sorry.” Lane pauses, and this time when she speaks, her voice is steadier, stronger. “So, how did it go?”

“It went really well. She’s all sewn up. Took her stitches like a champ.”

“And I’m gonna have a scar!” Sophie yells so Lane can hear.

“See? You hear that? She’s gonna have the coolest of scars.”

Lane lets out a breathy laugh. “You’re amazing.”

My heart flips inside my chest. “Maybe just a little.”

“I’m serious.” Her voice is a throaty rasp, a bedroom voice—the kind that makes me wish she were here and I could have her alone. “Teagan, thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I was glad to help. How’d your presentation go?”

“The first couple of minutes were a little shaky because my mind was on Sophie, but after that . . . I think I nailed it.”

“Thatta girl.” I smile, and my thoughts drift back to Chance.

A glance at the sidewalk confirms he’s gone, but I can’t help but feel like I should mention it to her.

“Where are you headed now?” she asks, breaking through my thoughts.

“Uh . . .” I purse my lips, glancing down at Sophie as I debate telling her now or later that we’re getting ice cream before lunch.

“The Frosty Cow!” Soph screams.

“You little turncoat.” I laugh, mouth open.

“Did she say—”

“Okay, so I might’ve promised her ice cream on the way back to campus as a bribe to be brave, but it worked, so I think I should get a pass.”

“Just don’t eat too much.” Lane laughs, and I’m relieved she’s not pissed about me feeding Sophie dessert before an actual meal.

She’s exactly the kind of loving, laid-back yet firm parent I’d want for children of my own.

Shit.

Did I really just think that?

I just got out of the friend zone, and here I am, already planning my fucking future with this girl.

I shake my head at myself and when I set Sophie on her feet, Chance Lockhart is the furthest thing from my mind.

Chapter 35

LANE

Ilean against thearchway to the living room of the lake house where Teagan lounges on the brand-new couch that was delivered just this afternoon, courtesy of my parents as a housewarming gift. His broad shoulders and long arms spread over the back of the couch, the remnants of the take-out pizza I ordered on the second-hand coffee table I scored at a flea market last month.

With his gaze fixed on the television, he laughs at an old rerun ofThe Officewhile I ponder how normal this feels, having him here. After practice, he stopped by for dinner and a movie, then spent the majority of the last hour painting Sophie’s nails a bright pink and playing dinosaurs.

Talking, dinner, and Sophie’s bedtime, all of those ordinary things are made extraordinary just by his presence.

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