Page 42 of A Little Too Late
“No,” he argues reflexively, just like a man. “I could have been the man you needed, but I wasn’t. I’m so sorry.”
I feel a little teary, because I’ve always needed to hear this apology. Meanwhile, I’ve nursed my anger for a decade, and it’s just hitting me that it prevented me from seeing past my own hurts. “It never occurred to me that you were traumatized. I never tried to see the bigger picture. I just thought you were…” Now I’m the one who has to swallow hard before I can finish the sentence. “Relievedwhen I miscarried. Like you got a do-over.”
“Baby, no.” Reed’s eyes get red. “I wanted you. I wanted that baby. I wanted a family. I was crushed when it didn’t happen for us. So crushed I couldn’t stand it.”
I stop breathing.
“Ava, come here a second. Please.” He beckons to me.
After putting my mug down with shaking hands, I walk over to the sofa. When I sit down, Reed pulls me into his arms. For the second time in two days, I inhale his woodsy scent. And I have to steel myself against pushing my nose into his neck and staying there forever.
I settle for laying my head on his shoulder while he hugs me tightly.
“Ava,” he whispers. “You were everything to me. And I threw that away, just like my father did with the pottery. I learned nothing from him. I have so many regrets.”
My eyes leak onto his crisp shirt. “Thank you for that,” I whisper. “Except…” I lift my head and look at him through my tears. “The first time we ever had a conversation, I convinced you to throw your pottery on the floor. I made it agame. What must you have been thinking?”
“But you had a point to make.” He strokes his thumb down my cheekbone. “It’s healthy to wreck an unfinished thing so you can start over and build something stronger. It’snotokay to break something just because it hurts to look at it. That’s what I did to us. I’ll always be sorry.”
I lay my head on his shoulder for another moment.
His lips touch my hair, and my heart trips over itself. And then I make things worse, and I’m really not sure why.
Maybe it’s emotional overload.
Or maybe it’s an echo, like muscle memory, that causes me to lift my mouth toward Reed’s. He must be caught in the same force field, because he drops his chin at the exact same time. Our mouths come together with a familiar ease.
As his soft lips first grace mine, I feel the same hitch in my breath as I used to. The same flutter as he claims my mouth in a serious kiss. I relax into him as if on command, and he tastes like cider and heat. He tastes likemine.
Reed doesn’t hesitate. He cups my cheek with a firm hand, but his mouth is gentle and slow. I’d forgotten that he was a deliberate kisser. And I’d forgotten how it feels to have a hundred and ten percent of Reed’s attention. It feels like love.
Is there any wonder I spent an entire year of my life pressed up against him? Is it even surprising that I fell so hard for this man who kisses like a dream?
Is it any wonder I got pregnant, and we broke each other’s hearts?
That sobering thought penetrates my lusty haze. I pull back, even though I don’t really want to. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. I scoot away from him, dropping my head into my hands. “I’m sorry. That was…” I’m too flustered to finish the sentence.
Reed only chuckles. He puts one warm hand on my shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “Shh,” he says, “This week is…”
“A lot,” I babble. “It’s a lot to handle. We just got…overwhelmed there for a second.”
He doesn’t rush to agree with me, he just passes his hand over my hair. A single, affectionate stroke. But God I miss this so much. I didn’t know I did, but here he is, and now I ache.
Damn it.
I stand up suddenly and grab our empty mugs. I carry them to the kitchen where I quickly wash them. I can feel Reed’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything. When the mugs are clean and dry, I have no excuse not to face him again. I turn around, finding him watching me with the same brown-eyed intensity that I remember so well. His expression is thoughtful and maybe a little bit smug.
I feel a healthy flare of irritation. “What?” I demand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His lips turn up in a smirk. “No reason.”
Yeah, it’s definitely time for him to go. I march across the room, open the cardboard pottery box and carefully tuck the mugs inside. “You’re having cocktails with the Sharpes tonight?”
“Unfortunately. My liver hates me already.”
“Better you than me.”
“Why aren’t you coming?” he asks. “I’d have thought you’d want to stay in front of them.”
