More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

She actually smiles. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen her happy in…well, since I barged into her life again. Sure, she’s chatting to fill the space. So the silence otherwise isn’t awkward? Or so I don’t ask her whether she has an answer to my proposal?

“Good.”

“Poor Keeley seems so lost about weddings. She really wanted my opinion on everything, like she’d barely given her ceremony a thought.” She shrugs. “If I’m not going to get to plan my own, it’s nice to…”

Britta falls silent as if she realizes what she’s all but admitting.

“So you’re marrying Makaio? You’re choosing logic over love?” I try to keep my voice even and not reveal my absolute fury at the thought.

She tenses again, moving around the kitchen watchfully, as if she’s steering clear of a wild animal. “I haven’t decided anything.”

I round the bar and invade her personal space. I don’t touch her exactly. I can’t or I’m worried I’ll lose my self-control and be all over her. I pin her against the counter, anchoring my hands on either side of her, and manage to stop myself from dragging her closer. “What can I do to help you choose me?”

“Back off.”

“Besides that.”

“Nothing. I have to think this through. Last night was…a lot.”

I can’t dispute that. “Let’s figure this out together.”

That sounds calm and responsible. Mature. Not too demanding.

She’s already shaking her head. “I need time to be alone with my thoughts.”

That fucking grates on my patience.

“Give me one evening. Just one to imagine with me what our lives would be like if we’d been married for the last three years and if our lives were normal—”

“How do I do that? If we’d been married that long, you wouldn’t have to force me to live with you. Jamie calling you Daddy would make me smile, not worry. We wouldn’t be living here.” She gestures around to the expansive mansion. “And I wouldn’t be trying to decide whether I’m marrying another man in less than two months.”

You’re not, I want to growl at her, but I manage to bite back the words. “Britta… Angel. Give me a chance. I can’t prove anything to you about us if you don’t let me.”

“Give me some space and we’ll talk when I’m ready. I promise.” She shoulders her way past me to take the fish from the oven.

As she sets the table, I clench my teeth. The old me would never have accepted that answer. She belongs with me. She needs to be with me.

But she doesn’t believe in me yet.

The new me knows she’s going to have to voluntarily choose me if she’s ever going to stand beside me in a white dress and say I do.

We sit down to dinner in silence broken only by Jamie’s antics. He’s not a fan of salad tonight, and we both have to stop him from throwing lettuce. He decides to push salmon between a gap in his baby teeth. When he reforms his mound of rice into a snowball and threatens to throw it, Britta takes it away with a wag of her finger. Only the banana I peeled for him at the last minute seems to be a hit.

“He do this often?” I haven’t noticed this behavior before.

She shakes her head. “Leslie, the woman who watched him today, is one of his favorite nursery school teachers, but she’s in her sixties. I don’t think they were running around the park all day. Sometimes when Jamie has energy to burn, he does this at the table.”

It makes sense, and I have childhood memories of being forced to sit through a meal when I had something way more interesting, usually sports, on my mind.

I stand and untie Jamie’s bib, then lift him into my arms. “Why don’t you finish? We’ll find some ball to chase for a while. If you’ll put our food in the oven, I’ll come back in a bit when we’re ready to eat it.”

She hesitates. “If you make him sit here long enough, he’ll get it down.”

“He’s a boy. He needs to run. He needs fresh air. This is my department. We’ll be back.”

“Daddy,” Jamie shrieks. “Let’s play!”

As I lead him outside, I feel Britta’s gaze on me, watching the two of us together. Is she assessing? Probably. I want to bristle a bit, but that’s what this period is for, to determine how I would be as a father and husband. This is me.

I hope what I’m doing is enough.

After a half hour of running and giggling on the lawn, Jamie is panting. One thing I know about my son now? He’s clever. He’s determined. He doesn’t mind being a little underhanded to get his way. He’s definitely my kid.

But he’s also kind and likes to laugh, and when I pretended to have a boo-boo, he didn’t hesitate to come kiss it. He’s caring, like his mother.

We enter the house again to find a spotless and empty kitchen. Britta slid our plates into a warming drawer, and I get them out, putting Jamie’s food on a plastic child’s plate so he doesn’t burn himself.

“If you eat well, I might find you some ice cream, partner.”

He claps his hands and digs into his food with gusto. Good, old-fashioned bribery works well. I can’t help but laugh.

Despite the turmoil right now, the uncertainty of not knowing whether Britta will ever be mine, I can’t deny how content I feel spending time with Jamie. Yes, he’s fun and incredible. But every time I look at him, I’m amazed that I see my face and Britta’s eyes. He’s a perfect blend of us.

After a little contraband in vanilla/chocolate swirl, I give him a quick bath, then hoist him into my arms so he can get a kiss from his mother.

I find her in the media room curled up in a chair near the CD player, wearing noise-canceling headphones over her ears.

And tears streaming down her face.

I rush over to her. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

She brushes the wetness from her cheeks and gives Jamie a falsely cheerful smile. “You all ready for bed, handsome man?”

“I want stories,” our son insists.

Her grin turns genuine. “Of course you do.”

When she stands and reaches out for Jamie, I hesitate. “You sure? I can do this.”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

I don’t think Britta means that, but she’s stubborn and this isn’t worth the fight. I hand him over. She hugs the little boy to her chest, eyes closed, her face a wealth of emotion as she holds him tight.

I can’t stand seeing her upset. I lean in and settle my lips against her ear. “How can I make you happy, angel?”

She shakes her head and clutches Jamie. “I’ll be back.”

I don’t like that answer, but I doubt she wants to risk upsetting our son just before bed.

“Night, little man.” I kiss the top of his head. “Soccer tomorrow?”

“Yeah!” He cheers and grins. “Night, Daddy.”

That still chokes me up. “Night, son.”

As Britta takes Jamie from the room, I give her my silent support with a caress down her back. I’m here for her. I may not have been good at that the first time we were together, but nothing means more to me now.

Once she rounds the corner and disappears, I look around for what might have upset her. Britta is usually the quiet, suffer-in-silence type. So when anything makes her cry, I know she means it. I hate how often I’ve reduced her to tears in the last few weeks. But I’m even more baffled by what made her sad just now.

The only thing I see are the headphones on the table in front of me. The second I put them on, I realize she’s been listening to the CD Keeley gave me.

I hear the ending notes of a song that tugs at me. I’ve heard this, I think.

I hit the BACK to start the last song she listened to over again. Instantly, I recognize it. Green Day’s “Good Riddance.”