Page 33 of Lillian

I’ve got a steaming cup of coffee in my hand, and I’m cuddled under the biggest, fluffiest blanket in the house with a guilty pleasure TV show on in the background.

Not that I’m really watching it. My eyes are glued to the TV, but I don’t see it. The sound fills the empty room, but I don’t hear it.

Instead, I’m watching a show in my head, hearing words that aren’t there.

Lincoln, moving inside me.

Lincoln, telling me he loves me.

Lincoln standing across a counter from me, with cold eyes and brutal words.

The sun is starting to rise now, rays of orange and purple shining through my living room window and illuminating the space in a way that would typically make me so happy. Content.

A knock on the door startles me enough that I jump, and a healthy amount of coffee dumps out of my cup, landing on the blanket. None of the scalding liquid splashes on my freshly showered body, thankfully.

“Lil, open up. I know you’re awake.”

Nerves wrack my body as I throw the blanket back and scramble off the couch. I look around the living room and panic at the mess. Toys are scattered haphazardly around the floor, dirty dishes sit to the left of the sink, and clean clothes sit in a laundry basket next to the couch that IswearI was going to get to at some point today.

“Please. I just want to explain,” he pleads through the screen door.

Damn him, but I want to hear whatever it is he has to say. Call me weak. After a big breath, I walk over to see Lincoln standing on my stoop, wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, holding a small box in his hand.

“What’s that?” I nod at it.

He glances down at it and back up to me. “Can I come in?”

I hesitate. On the one hand, this is my space. Mine and Grace’s, and right now, it is untainted. Filled only with good memories. Now, he’s about to come in and possibly ruin that. On the other, what if he adds anothergoodmemory to this place? And he did just drive over two hours to get here. He must have been right behind me because I’ve only had time to shower and change since being home.

“Please?” he asks again, and I think it’s the emotion in his voice that does me in. It’s not him trying to coerce me, push through anyway, or guilt me. The sound is heartbroken and exhausted.

In answer, I push open the screen with one hand and step back for him to walk in. Heat rushes to my cheeks when he strides across the doorway, stops, and surveys the mess. He spends a second taking everything in, and my nerves are so fried I can feel myself starting to get defensive over my messy space.

But he doesn’t say anything about it. He spins on a heel and turns back to me. There’s a sad, anxious look in his eyes that throws me off, so I go into hospitality mode.

“Do you want a water or something? There’s a pot of coffee on,” I mutter, fold my arms across my chest, and nod at the hot pot in the kitchen.

His eyes don’t leave mine to look where I’m nodding, though, and he shakes his head.

I chew on the inside of my cheek for something to distract me as we stand there in silence staring at each other.

I break first.

“Well?” I drop my arms to my sides. “What did you want to explain?”

His chest expands as he takes a big breath. My eyes drop to his broad shoulders at the movement, stretched tight against his T-shirt. Fuck my life. Why must everything about this man be so damn sexy?

“You said something that bothered me earlier.” My rising libido crash lands.

“Excuse me?” Isaid something wrong?

“You did. And I want to get something straight.” For a minute, the sadness leaves his eyes, replaced by a blazing fire. “Never, not one time since I met you, have I ever been embarrassed of you.Ever,”he emphasizes. From the corner ofmy eye, I see his one free hand flex, twitching my way. Almost reaching for me.

I go still, though, stuck on his declaration. “Why would you say you were then?” My voice sounds small.

I hate it.

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

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