Page 38 of The Contractor's Rose
He was talking business. With my father. While I lay half-naked in his bed.
I opened my mouth, probably to whisper-scream something along the lines ofoh my God, are you insane, but he just kept his hand moving. Calm and steady, dragging the pads of his fingers down to the small of my back and back up again. Comforting. Soothing. And basically the only thing keeping me from launching myself off the bed and out the nearest window.
They talked for a few minutes—about the foundation, the plumbing (of course), the fact that it had been on the market for months but needed more work than people wanted to admit.
“Alright. Drinks later?” Gavin said. “Yeah, I’ll bring comps and some reno estimates … Sounds good. Talk soon.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone back to the nightstand like he hadn’t just committed social arson.
I stared up at him, breath caught in my throat.
“You just … kept talking to my father while I am?—”
“Wrapped around me in nothing but my shirt?” He grinned, eyes still sleepy-soft. “Yeah. I noticed.”
I pushed at his chest lightly. “You’re awful.”
He caught my hand with easy reflexes and kissed my knuckles. His lips were warm. Familiar. Dangerous. “You’re lucky he didn’t FaceTime.”
“Oh myGod?—”
He laughed, deep and low and warm. And I melted right back into him.
“I owe Elodie a girls’ night,” I said after a minute, voice muffled against his chest. “And she’s going to want an update.”
“You should go,” he said, still stroking lazy circles on my back. “I’m guessing the update is about us and not the shop?”
“She already knows.”
His hand stilled. “Of course, she does. She’s your best friend.”
“Yeah.”
The word hung there for a moment, heavier than I expected. We were quiet for a second.
“I’d like to keep waking up like this,” I said, softer this time.
The air shifted between us, like we’d crossed some invisible line.
His voice matched mine when he replied, “Then let’s figure out how to make that happen.”
We locked eyes. And just like that, it felt real. More real than it ever had.
This wasn’t temporary. It wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t some dirty little secret we’d sweep under the rug and pretend never happened.
We were doing this.
“Why don’t we have dinner with your parents in a few days, weeks, or a month,” he suggested. “Whenever you are ready.”
“Together?”
“Safety in numbers,” he said, a teasing tilt to his voice. “Maybe a public place. Keep them from throwing things.”
“Exactly.”
He chuckled, then added, “I’ll let Harry take one good swing.”
I blinked. “What?”
