Page 29 of Afterglow

As each day passes, I find myself talking aloud with increasing frequency—to the tiny human growing in there. I did it in front of my boss earlier today and had to play off the random comment as a bad joke.

I grab everything I need for grilled cheese because it’s low effort. It won’t be as delicious as what I could get from my favorite local restaurant, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I’m about to put butter in the pan when my phone vibrates on the counter. Reaching for it, I see Bryce’s name across the top and a jolt runs through me. I drop the spatula in my hand with a clatter on the floor and stare at his name until right before I’m sure it will go to voicemail.

I swipe the screen just in time. “Hello.”

“Leanne.”

I can practically feel his deep voice as it rumbles against my ear. There’s no biting irritation or frustration or any of the myriad of emotions I’ve come to expect in his tone.

“Hey. Hi. Um…” I can’t sort out the jumble of words in my brain.

“I hope it’s okay that I called. I just—”

“It’s good… that you called. I’m sorry I didn’t, it’s been…” I hesitate and toy with my watch, knowing I don’t have a good excuse for my radio silence.

“Could I bring you dinner?” he asks in a rush, like he’s been holding the words in and couldn’t stop the flow for another second. “If you’re feeling up to it. I’m in town.”

Why is this man so thoughtful? I’m not sure I deserve it when I’ve been so distant with him. I guess we do need to talk though, so I throw him a bone.

If I can make one grilled cheese, I can make two, right? “I was craving grilled cheese and was about to—”

He interrupts my offer to ask, “Have you ever had the grilled cheese from Whiskey Ditch?”

I smile to myself. Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought. “It’s my favorite actually.”

“What if I pick up a couple and bring them there? Would that work? I don’t want to impose, but I’d really like to see you.”

His sincerity is baffling.

This is a completely different man than the one I dealt with for all those months. This man more closely resembles the one I’d lain with in that tent. The observant one. The attentive one. The considerate one. I think I liked that man… even if I said I didn’t. And that scares me more than being pregnant does, because the last man I liked—and eventually loved—broke not only my heart but my spirit.

My own chaotic emotions aside, I can’t keep putting this off… and I want Whiskey Ditch. So, without overthinking the fluttery sensation in my stomach and the pounding of my pulse under my skin, I say, “I’d love that,” and find that I mean it.

Thirty minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in a pair of joggers with a long-sleeve tee, feeling a million times better than I have all day. And the prospect of this grilled cheese has me more excited than any sandwich should.

It’s definitely only the sandwich I’m excited about. It has nothing to do with the burly, brusque, and undeniably attractive man delivering it. I’m also telling myself that shaving my legs was for my own benefit. They’re not even showing; it was just for me, because I hadn’t done it in a while. That’s all.

The doorbell rings and my heart rate picks up to a gallop. I press my hand to my chest and take a deep breath.

It’s only dinner.

With the father of my child.

A child I’m very much excited about… but how is he feeling about all of this? I never even bothered to ask.

I sigh and pull open the door. He’s facing away, looking up and down the street, but then he turns and I take in the whole picture. His beard is groomed over his strong jaw and his lips pull up at the corners when he sees me. There are soft lines around the corners of his eyes too.

He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans over boots, but these aren’t covered in dirt or scuffs like the work boots he wore at the ranch. These are nice boots… Like, going out boots. And with his jeans, he’s wearing a tan Carhartt jacket layered over a blue waffle knit Henley.

He looks… good. Good enough to have memories of our night together flashing through my mind. But that can’t happen. Not again.

I clear my throat and avert my eyes, opening the door wider. “Hi. Come on in.”

He looks dressed for a date, and I’m in loungewear.

“Thanks,” he says, toeing his boots off before walking straight for my kitchen. Over his shoulder, he says, “And thank you for letting me come.”