Dylan was panting when he gripped one of the cushions on the back of the sofa, yanked it up, and tossed it over the side, then did the same with the other two. He wrapped one arm low on Emma’s waist and drew her back to the center of the sofa.
“There.” He combed the fingers of one hand into her hair and braced himself up on his elbows. His own hair fell across his forehead. “Now we’ve got room. Because we’re gonna need room.”
She framed his handsome face with her hands and lifted into him, moaning at the feel of him sliding inside her. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
He kissed her. “You’re not dreaming.”
She searched his eyes. Tried to memorize this moment. This utterly perfect moment. “Tell me we can make this work.”
His eyes closed, and an expression of painful joy crossed his face. “We can absolutely make this work.” When he looked at her again, he must have seen the doubt still hiding in the shadows. “I love you, Em. I love you so much.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s always been you.” Looked into her eyes again. “Will forever be you.”
Then he kissed her lips, tasted her slowly, patiently. His weight was reassuring. Thrilling. He reached over her head, braced one hand against the arm of the sofa, and started moving in long, deep, deliberate thrusts.
That was all it took to allow the present to come into complete focus and let the joy only Dylan could provide swamp her.
19
Dylan let himself float in a sleepy, half-conscious state. He wasn’t ready to wake up. Wasn’t ready to face the day. Face reality. The reality that winning Emma back was going to be so much harder than he’d expected. That he might not be able to do it.
Emma had been up at sunrise, sneaking out of bed and into scrubs. She would have slipped out of the apartment without saying goodbye if he hadn’t rolled out of bed and caught her at the front door.
The look in her eyes still unsettled him. It had been a strange combination of disappointment and resignation, as if she were thinking that it was too bad they wouldn’t last. He understood her distrust. He knew he’d have to earn it back. But he also didn’t feel like she was giving him the chance to do that. She might let him have her body, but she hadn’t offered up any part of her heart. Not even a
corner of it.
He rolled to his back and rested his forearm across his eyes with a groan. Dylan had no idea how she would manage a shift on as little sleep as they’d gotten last night. The memories strolled through his head and hardened his morning wood. But there was a pain in his heart, a dull, annoying ache like a rock in a shoe.
He sighed, lowered his arm, and stared at the ceiling. She hadn’t told him she loved him once since he’d been back. Not during an intimate conversation. Not during the most intense moments of sex. And not after either.
Doubt took on weight and darkened his mood. It made him sick to think there might be too much damage for her to open up again. That they couldn’t overcome the mistakes he’d made. He’d tried so hard to reach her last night, but no matter how much pleasure he brought her body, he hadn’t seen the same ecstasy in her heart.
He’d thought his commitment to the job would have elicited her trust. Show her he was going to stay and follow through on his promises with the house, his promises to her. Maybe after the weight of her debt had cleared, maybe once she saw him return from assignments again and again, her trust would grow. Maybe then, she’d let him in again.
Dylan rolled to a sitting position, propped his elbows on his knees, and ran all ten fingers through his hair. That felt like a long time to wait, but wait he would. He didn’t have any other option. She was The One. Always had been. Always would be.
His phone pinged with a text message. He reached over to pick it up from the nightstand and found the drawer open an inch. He and Emma had probably bumped it at some point last night. Damn, they’d been fire between the sheets. His whole body tingled with the memory.
The message was from the kitchen contractor, confirming their meeting at the house in an hour. Dylan responded affirmatively and dropped the phone on the nightstand again. He lowered his hand to close the drawer, but found himself opening it instead. His conscience niggled in the back of his head, but that didn’t keep him from lifting the top of a thin wooden box at the front of the drawer.
His gaze landed on a silver band atop a photo. Excitement rushed his system. It was the platinum wedding band he’d given her. The photo beneath was one from their wedding. With his heart in his throat, he picked up the band and slid it onto his little finger, then inspected the photo. A candid showing them both so much younger, so much happier. The paper was worn and soft, as if she’d handled it a thousand times.
He had so much to make up for, it overwhelmed him.
“Better get on with it, then,” he told himself before replacing the photo and the ring.
He pulled on his clothes, noticing a lightness in his heart and energy in his body. She transformed him from a hollow, adrenaline-junkie loner to a loved, purposeful family man.
Dylan drove to the house smiling. He hadn’t been this happy since they’d been together eight years ago. Too much time had passed. He’d wasted too many precious days. Weeks. Years.
When he pulled into the drive, Dylan found the kitchen guy waiting in his truck. Tony was in his early fifties with a mellow demeanor and a warm smile. Dylan walked him through the living area, describing how he hoped to design the kitchen based on the images Emma had added to their Pinterest board for the house.
Tony asked questions, jotted notes, and sketched a floorplan. He pointed to the wall of the breakfast nook. ”Are you making any structural changes here.”
“I hadn’t planned to, why?”
He gave a shrug. “I was just thinking that if you moved that wall out three feet, you could make a big island work in here. It would really open up the space.”
Dylan thought about the photos Emma had pinned on the board, then he went outside, checked the distance between the fence line and the house and the roofline. Tony followed him out.