He pulls his gaze away from mine again. “Gabe loves you very much,” he says, his voice quiet. “He obviously holds a lot of passion where you’re concerned.”
I bite my lip, not wanting to talk about Gabe. “I know.”
“You’re not supposed to be here. You made a promise to Bridget.”
He turns to face me. “I wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re eating well and taking care of yourself.”
Not this again. “I am,” I assure him. “I’m following your list religiously.”
“What have you been eating?”
I mull it over for a second. What have I been eating?
“Macaroni and cheese, lots of soup, homemade pizza…. lots of crackers and cream cheese…. pancakes.”
He shakes his head. Apparently Dr. Hanson does not approve. “That’s dreadful, Mirella.”
“What?”
“Have you been eating protein…vegetables?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”
He scratches his chin. The sight of him scratching his sexy stubble makes me…damn, these hormones.
“I have a chef I like,” he says. “I’m thinking of sending him your way. His name is Manny. He’s French. I think Manny’s short for Em—”
“I don’t need a personal chef, Weston,” I scoff. “Jesus…”
“Do it,” Gwen calls out from the kitchen. “Get the personal chef.”
I gasp and glare at the same time. “Gwen, stop listening to our conversation.”
Weston laughs, seemingly quite entertained by Gwen. I, on the other hand, am just about to kick her out on her Lululemon-clad rear.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask.
He smiles. “Sure.”
I jump to my feet. “Let’s go.”
“Uh…you are going to change...”
I look down at my shabby housecoat and bring my hand to my messy hair and suddenly remember I look horrible. “I’m sorry. Yes. I look rather…”
He smiles again. “You look beautiful.”
I change into a pair of stretchy shorts and a yellow t-shirt. I do nothing with my hair — he’s seen me at my worst — the damage is done. I bound down the stairs and slip on my Birkenstocks.
His gaze stills on my midsection.
I look up at him. “Yeah, I’m getting a little belly.” I whisper. “It’s barely noticeable.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says as he inches closer to me. “May I?”
He presses his hand softly on the small bump. His hand feels warm against the thin fabric of my shirt. My whole body heats at his touch. I close my eyes for just a second, breathing in his wonderful scent. I open my eyes to see him staring down at me, his eyes dark. Part of me wants him to kiss me, right here in the front entry hall of my house, but I know that’s just not possible. I know I’m misbehaving. God has not answered my prayers. He hasn’t set me straight yet. I’m still a complete mess.
“Uh…we should get going,” he breathes and I detect the slightest hint of a crack in his voice.
“Yes, definitely.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like a puppet on a string.
I sit next to him on the bench and watch two children play with their mother at the park. My eye is drawn to the sweet little toddler with angel white blond hair. He’s not too steady on his legs. His mother helps him out, steadying him as he attempts to walk on the pebbles. I wonder what my baby will look like. Will he have a full head of dark hair? Will he inherit my freckles as he grows older?
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Weston says. “But I just wanted to make sure you were okay. See it with my own eyes.”
I’m so drawn to him. I want to touch him. Just hold his hand. “I know,” I say as I put my hand over his. Our hands rest on the bench between us. He pulls his hand away softly and takes my hand in his. I close my eyes without a word. He trails his thumb along the inside of my palm. “I’ve missed you,” he says quietly.
“Me too,” I whisper, not quite looking at him. The cute toddler with the angel hair goes down the slide. His mother catches him at the bottom, all smiles.
The park is silent, with only the occasional shrieks of the little boy and his sister.
“You’ve hurt me,” he says.
My heart pounds as I wait for him to say something else, to explain. But he doesn’t say another word.
“What do you mean?”
“The last time we were together,” he says as he turns to me. “When we…and you said it didn’t change a thing. You told me you