Page 44 of Worth the Wait
We lie together in comfortable silence, watching the sunrise paint the sky in brilliant colors beyond her windows. This is what I want, I realize. Not just the physical intimacy, but this—the easy comfort of being with someone who understands me, who challenges me, who makes me want to be better than I am.
“I should probably get up,” Lianne says eventually, though she makes no move to leave my arms. “Make coffee, start the day like a responsible adult.”
“Responsibility is overrated,” I reply, tightening my hold on her. “Besides, I like you better irresponsible.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded in a way that makes my chest tight with affection. “Is that so? And what exactly constitutes irresponsible behavior in your expert opinion?”
“Staying in bed until noon. Making love until we’re both exhausted. Pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
“Tempting,” she admits, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone. “But I actually do make excellent coffee, and I’m suddenly starving.”
“Fair enough. But I’m helping with breakfast.”
She pulls back to look at me with raised eyebrows. “You cook?”
“I’ve learned a few things in four years. Nothing fancy, but I think I can manage eggs and toast without burning down your kitchen.”
“Now that I have to see.”
As we reluctantly disentangle ourselves, I catch sight of my phone on her nightstand and make a conscious choice. I pick it up and power it off completely, setting it aside without checking for messages.
Lianne notices the gesture, her eyebrows rising slightly.
“No interruptions,” I say firmly. “Not today. The world can survive without me for a few hours.”
Something shifts in her expression—relief, maybe, or hope. “Are you sure? What if it’s important?”
“Nothing is more important than this,” I say, pulling her close for another kiss. “Than us. I learned that lesson the hard way four years ago.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in her kitchen, working together to prepare breakfast with the kind of easy domesticity that feels both foreign and perfectly natural.
“French press or espresso machine?” she asks, gesturing to a coffee setup on the counter.
“Whatever you prefer. I’m not picky about caffeine delivery methods.”
She starts the coffee while I handle eggs, and we fall into an easy rhythm of cooking together. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels significant somehow—like we’re practicing for a future that includes shared mornings and comfortable routines.
“So,” Lianne says as she arranges fresh fruit on a plate with the same attention to detail she brings to her professional events, “what do you think this means? Last night, this morning... us?”
It’s a fair question, and one I’ve been thinking about since I woke up with her in my arms. Four years ago, we never really defined what we were to each other during those months of wedding planning, never talked openly about what we wanted or where we saw things going. That uncertainty, that lack of communication, was part of what made us so vulnerable to outside pressure.
“I think it means I want to try again,” I say. “I think it means I want to build something real with you this time, something that can withstand whatever complications the world throws at us.”
Lianne sets down the fruit plate and turns to face me fully, her expression serious and hopeful in equal measure.
“And your family? Your business obligations? All the things that came between us before?” She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What’s different this time?”
The vulnerability in her voice breaks my heart. This is what I did to us four years ago—created doubt that lingers even now, when we’re standing in her kitchen planning our future.
“What’s different is that I’m not the same man who let other people make decisions about my life,” I say, moving closer to frame her face with my hands. “I’m not twenty-six anymore, Lianne. I’m not going to let anyone else choose who I spend my life with.”
“But they’ll try. Your parents, your social circle—they’ll find ways to pressure you like they did before.”
“Let them try.” My voice is firm, determined. “I’ve spent four years building Sterling Industries independently, proving that I don’t need their approval or their money to succeed. The only approval that matters to me now is yours.”
Lianne searches my face, looking for any sign of the uncertainty that destroyed us before. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because her expression softens into something that looks like hope mixed with relief.
“I ran after Santa Barbara because I was terrified of believing in us again,” she admits. “I was scared that if I let myself hope, you’d choose them over me like you did before.”
