Standing up, I headed for the door and downstairs. I wanted to see him in my house. Cooking in my kitchen. These were dreams I’d never experienced because I had been afraid to. This wasn’t what I knew in men. It was something that men did for the Blaires and Harlows of this world. Not the Nans.
But no one had explained that fact to Cope. Because there he stood at my sink, washing up the dishes he had dirtied. His gaze was on mine the moment I stepped into the room.
“I’m baking chicken with spaghetti. Did you sleep well? Sure sounded like it.”
“Sounded?” I asked, frowning.
“You snore. Loudly.”
I rolled my eyes and walked over to sit on the bar stool across from him. “No, I don’t.”
“The hell you don’t. Like a freaking saw.”
I wasn’t sure if he was teasing or serious. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ve never been told I snore before.”
“You do. Trust me.”
“Must be the pregnancy.”
“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. I’ve watched you snore for months.”
“You’re an ass,” I muttered. Then I froze. Watched me? “How did you watch me for months?” My heart sped up, and I felt slightly panicked.
He didn’t move from where he stood, and I stared at him, knowing he’d be honest, no matter how much I didn’t want to hear it. “Surveillance.”
Holy mother of God. He had seen me sleep? What else? Bathing? Dressing? I felt exposed in a way I never had. “Who all saw me?” I asked, needing to sit down, to run and hide, to wrap myself up in a ball and cry. This was my home. My safe place. I hadn’t realized that surveillance meant they watched me inside my home.
“Just me. Only me. From day one.”
Just him. That fact eased some of the panic but not all of it. My mind raced to all the things he’d seen. All the privacy that was now ripped from me.
“I fell in love with you before I met you. Watching you. I knew everything about you.”
Oh, God. I was going to be sick. I backed away, shaking my head. “You watched me,” I said, letting it sink in further.
He nodded. “And it was me who made love to you those nights.”
The dreams . . . they weren’t dreams.
The world I had accepted was now blowing up in front of me with colors and images I wasn’t ready for. Deep down, had I known those weren’t dreams and that accepting it made me feel wrong in some way? Was I fucked up in the head?
“You came to me at night.” I had to say it out loud. Taste the words on my tongue. Face the truth. Decide if I could handle it.
“Yes. After having you in Vegas, I couldn’t stay away. The night Major kissed you, I lost my mind. Those notes were my words. That date I planned out, and he got all the credit. He’d done nothing but buy you damn roses. So I came to you. Needing to reassure myself that it was me you wanted. It was selfish, but you drew me in without fear. So easily.”
I had. Believing he was a dream was easy. Those notes had been from him. It made sense. Major wouldn’t think of something like that. The secret garden and the meal had all seemed as surprising to Major as it had to me. I’d been confused by that, but now it made sense.
“I wanted to be the one with you. Not him. I pushed him to get close to you, all the while terrified he would.”
I stared at him, letting his words play through my head. Soaking in the realness of all this. Understanding that so much of what I thought wasn’t true. I had been played in many ways. Tricked so much but for what? To protect me? To prove my innocence? Was this man taking care of me, cooking for me, and showing me more love than any man ever had worth forgiving? It was a lot to forgive. I knew the answer, though.
Yes. He was.
I was imperfect. I was pregnant because of my selfish choices. I had gone after him when I thought he’d knocked up another girl and wouldn’t take care of her. I had begged him to fuck me over and over, knowing nothing about him. He held his secrets close, but I wanted him anyway.