Page 34 of Secret Bump

She smiles against my lips. “That’ll be a tricky book to top.”

Swallowing hard, I let her go. “Please don’t climb all the way up,” I beg.

She rolls her eyes and moves the ladder down the rail to the next bookshelf. “I’ll be fine.”

I pick up the flashlight and the books I selected, and I light her path.

From behind, in her jeans and t-shirt, she looks like a schoolgirl, even more than she did in the kilt that first day we met.

Thank God for that kiss, because without it, lusting after her would feel wrong. My heart lodges in my throat as she climbs the ladder. She stops at each shelf, reading the cards on either side. She goes all the way to the top, fully ignoring my stern instruction, and then quickly comes back down again, selecting two books from the middle shelf.

“For you,” she says when she joins me. It’s a book about each week of pregnancy. “Because you asked what comes next.”

A lump lodges in my throat. “How—” I clear it and try again. “How many weeks are you?”

“Fourteen. Just entering the second trimester.”

I turn to that page and mark it with the front flap of the dust jacket. “To read later. What did you pick for yourself?”

“Baby names,” she says with a shy smile. It’s a well-loved used edition, with a cracked spine and dog-eared pages. “Something for us to discuss later.”

“I can’t wait.”

She looks at the pile of books in my arms. “Do we have to pay for these?”

I laugh. “We probably should.”

“Do you know how the cash register works?”

We figure it out together, laughing.

The last thing I do is arm the security system again, then she locks the door and we take our books down the street to a coffee shop that’s open late.

She orders a hot apple cider. I get a dark chocolate mochaccino.

We talk about the books, and the bookstore adventure, and we laugh more than I think I’ve ever laughed in my entire life.

By the time I’m walking her back to the car, my cheeks hurt in the best way, and my limbs are loose.

I’m at ease, I realize.

God, I’m a fucking idiot for running from her.

My driver opens the back door and Isabelle slides in. I follow, and instead of scurrying from me, she curls up against me immediately.

Yes.

This feeling? If I could bottle it, I’d make another billion dollars in the blink of an eye. But I’m a selfish man and I don’t want to share it. This is ours and ours alone.

I brush a lock of her hair off her forehead. “What do you want to do next?”

“Bed?” she asks hopefully.

“Are you tired?”

“After my long nap?” She shakes her head.No.

So, bed is dangerous. “We should stay out of the house, then.”

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