Page 37 of The Contractor's Rose
“I can’t,” I said finally, voice low. “Not anymore. I had a procedure a long time ago. It’s … it could be reversed, maybe. But I didn’t think I’d ever be in a place where that mattered again.”
Rose was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I’ve never wanted kids.” She said it simply, like a fact. Not an apology.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were closed again, lips parted slightly, her hands folded over mine in the water.
“I mean, I’ve always felt broken for it,” she added softly. “Everyone I told kept saying, ‘Oh, you’ll change your mind someday.’ But I never did. Not once.”
My heart thudded hard in my chest, slow and certain.
“You’re not broken, Rose.”
She nodded slowly. “Neither are you.”
I kissed the top of her head and let my hand run gently down her stomach, palm flat and warm beneath the water. She covered it with hers, lacing our fingers.
And in that moment, with her spine pressed against my chest, I realized something I hadn’t let myself believe before.
This could work.
TWENTY-ONE
ROSEMARIE
Sittingin front of the mirror while getting ready to go out with Elodie, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gavin. We’ve spent several nights together since he picked a crying me up off the shop floor (again), took me to his home, and wined and dined me—emphasis on thewined. And then there was that bath…
It wasn’t just that night—though that bath tub is something out of a dream—but everything.
The way Gavin held me in bed. The quiet way he touched me, like he was memorizing my skin just to prove to himself I was real. The press of his mouth against my temple when he whispered, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” into my hair.
We hadn’t had sex. And, okay, I was a little disappointed.
I’d beenready. Wanting. More than that—I was basically feral at every brush of his fingers, every stolen kiss on my shoulder or stomach.
But I was also … awed.
Because even when I’d been leaning into him with nothing but a thread of cotton between us, he hadn’t takenadvantage. Not once. Not even when I’d looked up at him with wide eyes and a smile that silently begged for more.
His restraint wasn’t hesitation. It was care. Deliberate and quiet and impossibly kind. He just … took care of me.
Last night, he picked me up at the shop. We had dinner and talked for hours on the patio before he tucked us into bed. And, sure, maybe he was the reason I was a little wine drunk to begin with. Gavin’s idea of a pour was half the bottle. But still. He’d kept his word.
We woke this morning tangled in his tan sheets, limbs wound together in a way that made it hard to tell whose was whose. My thigh was slung over his hip, his hand resting low on my back, his breath soft and even against my temple. The room was quiet and the morning light slid between the slats of his blinds in long golden bands, catching on the faint lines around his mouth and eyes. I watched his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek, steady and strong, like nothing could ever shake him. I didn’t want to move.
I was wearing one of his work shirts. It hung off my shoulders, oversized and worn in the softest way—probably from years of sun and sweat and washing. No panties—because someone hadn’t given mine back … again.
His phone had vibrated on the nightstand, the sharp sound a rude interruption to the silence we’d been wrapped in. The noise startled me enough that I tensed, but Gavin just groaned and reached for it with his free arm, dragging it to his ear without even checking the screen.
His voice was gravel-thick with sleep when he said, “Yeah?”
I blinked up at him, tucked tighter into his side as he pulled the phone to his ear. His chest rumbled under my cheek, the sound of his voice as peaceful as it was distracting.
“Morning, Harry,” he said after a pause. I froze.
Harry.MyfatherHarry.
I looked up sharply, heart stuttering. Gavin didn’t even flinch. He just lifted his hand and started tracing soft lines down my spine like I wasn’t in full panic mode.
“Mhm. Yeah, I know the place,” he continued, casual as anything. “Is it still on the market?”
