More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

She shrugs. “I’m good with whatever. I’m going to shower.”

“Sure. It will be ready when you come out.”

After a little poking around, I find the fixings to make her a chicken quesadilla with some homemade salsa. I boil up some instant rice and doctor it with spices to make it a tad more authentic.

By the time I finish, she’s walking out of the bathroom, looking squeaky and fresh, with a towel wrapped around her head, wearing a matching cotton cami and shorts that double as pajamas.

It’s not sexy. All the essentials are covered, and she’s not dolled up in the least. But she’s coming toward me with a smile, and that’s all it takes these days for my body to flash hot and for me to want her.

Vaguely, I think back to the last time I had sex. Was that only ten days ago? Feels like a lifetime. Yet I’m aware that if you gave me a choice between whatever-her-name-was in the killer stilettos and skimpy dress or Britta in her jammies and turban, I’d absolutely take the woman I love. Even sick. Even though I’m sure nothing will happen between us tonight. I’m exactly where I want to be.

She sits at the table, and I put a bottle of water, her antibiotics, and some ibuprofen in front of her. “Eat up.”

“What about you?” She frowns my way.

“I had an early dinner with Keeley since she came off the plane starved. Want me to bathe Jamie while you fill your belly?”

She glances at the clock. “Do you mind?”

I wonder if Makaio ever helps her with my son like this. I suspect he doesn’t get involved too much, but I’m kind of hoping he doesn’t lift a finger with Jamie. He probably tells himself that he doesn’t want to step on Britta’s toes. Deep down, does he think my son is baggage? I suspect he does. I’ll bet that’s why he was more than happy to help me obtain some custodial rights, so he’ll have Britta all to himself every other weekend. I don’t know whether to be glad or disgusted. Either way, he’ll soon be out of the picture.

“Not at all. I love spending time with him. But I learned a valuable lesson last night not to encourage too much splashing or I have a hard time keeping his cast dry. And most of the water in the tub winds up on the floor.”

That earns me a smile that becomes a gentle laugh. “Yes. He never does anything halfway. Always full throttle for that kid. He’s a lot like you.”

“Poor guy.” I wink at her, then glance at him over my shoulder. He’s moved on to his trucks and is making vroom sounds as he rolls one across the hardwood.

Britta forks in a bite of the dinner I’ve prepared and her eyes widen. She gives me a look of surprise. “This is actually good. You can cook now.”

Secretly, I’m pleased she thinks so. “Not too hard to follow a recipe. Need anything else before we get started?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” She gives me a little smile that makes me feel warm inside. “For everything.”

After bathing my son and dressing him in pajamas, I help him brush his teeth, then take him to Britta for a kiss. When she presses her lips to his cheek, he fights my hold to sit in her lap. He wants Mommy, and it’s obvious they’re close. I have to take him to his room and sit him in my lap to soothe him with a few stories and some pats on the back.

It doesn’t take long before he’s yawning, little fist covering his mouth, his eyes droopy.

“Night, Jamie.”

When I hug him, he presses a sleepy, sloppy kiss on my cheek.

My heart melts, even as my determination to hang on to my son solidifies into steel. No one—especially not some fucking banker—will ever be Jamie’s father but me.

I set him in his crib, and he rolls over with his stuffed animal and his thumb. His breathing evens out and deepens almost instantly.

I’m sure I’m hardly the first father to think this about their kid, but he’s amazing. He’s a little individual. He’s got a smile I’d know anywhere. He’s got a cowlick in the back of his head, a small splatter of freckles, and a tiny gap in his teeth. I’ve memorized them all. Everything about him is adorable.

I come back to find Britta on the sofa, curled up with a blanket, head resting on the back. The TV is running softly in the background. She’s asleep.

A glance around tells me she’s already cleaned up the kitchen. I’d chastise her if she didn’t need her rest.

I settle beside her on the couch and flip a few channels, coming to some basketball recap on ESPN. I’ve been trying to keep up with the college games. March Madness is right around the corner. But I can only smell Britta’s light scent—jasmine and clean skin.

With a moan, she rolls and shifts her weight to one hip, clearly trying to get comfortable. Her head slides off the back of the sofa and hangs awkwardly against her chest. She looks damn uncomfortable. If I don’t do something, she’s going to wake up with a stiff neck or a headache.

Okay, that might not be the only reason I decide to touch her. And yes, I know she’s sick. I’m not planning to seduce her…just get a little closer.

I sidle against her and dip my shoulder under her head until she’s using me as a pillow. In her sleep, she shifts around, seemingly looking for a more comfortable position. Her hand drops to my thigh.

My entire body goes tense.

I want this woman.

I admit I always want sex. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve turned it down in my life, and most of them were from a former co-worker’s wife. I do have a few boundaries. But what I feel for Britta is beyond desire. She’s…comfortable. That sounds unsexy, I’m guessing. But what I mean is, I don’t have to pretend with her. Britta Stone is kind, reliable, funny, sensitive, sharp, interesting… My feelings are real, and as I sit here with her head on my shoulder, I realize that no matter how many women I slept with in the thirty-nine months we’ve been apart, I never found anyone as perfect for me as her.

It’s reassuring in a way, the validation that my love isn’t mere nostalgia. I can picture her asleep as she cuddles up next to me in thirty years, when we’re talking about things like retirement and grandkids and cruises around the world.

Oddly, I’m looking forward to sharing all those adventures with her.

When she shifts her body for the tenth time in as many minutes, I decide enough is enough and lift her into bed. Her sheets are still rumpled from last night, and I tuck her into the cloud of softness, then shut the door so she can rest peacefully.

I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with the rest of my evening. I flip more channels, talk to my brother about a lead he got late this afternoon on the Stowe estate—shockingly fast for a property ringing in at nearly thirty million dollars—and pace a lot, wondering if I should check on Britta again.

Then a phone rings somewhere in the house. It’s not mine.

I follow the sound into the kitchen and see Britta’s phone lighting up and vibrating its way across the table. A glance at the display has me cursing.

Makaio.

I figured out a long time ago that he’s nothing like me, but in his shoes, if my sick woman didn’t answer her phone I’d get my ass in the car and head over to her house to make sure everything is all right.

I don’t need him here, fucking up my domestic bliss and reminding Britta that she thinks she’s moved on.

“Hello,” I answer. I don’t try to sound unfriendly, but I’m pissed that he won’t go the fuck away.

It’s unrealistic, since he thinks he’s marrying Britta, I know. But he’s totally wrong.

“Um…hi. What are you doing—”

“Answering Britta’s phone? She’s asleep.” Dipshit. “She’s really sick. I took her to the doctor today and got her some antibiotics. She should be better in a few days.” You’re welcome, prick. “No cause for concern.”

“You? And why are you at her house?”

“She’s far too sick to take care of a toddler, and Jamie is my son. This is a good opportunity to get to know him and let him be comfortable with me while making sure he doesn’t catch w

hatever bug Britta’s got.”