Page 58 of From Maybe to Baby

7:30. Though knowing my kids, they'll be up at 6

That's incredibly early

Worth it though

For pancakes?

For everything

I look around my hotel room – perfectly arranged, perfectly temporary. Just like every other room in every other resort.

See you then

Not sure I can wait. Care for a visitor? We can… discuss your article

My heart thumps against my chest and I can think of a hundred reasons to say no. And really, none to answer yes.

And yet.

*You know my room number

Oh God.

I blame the moonlight.Or maybe the lingering taste of his kiss. Or possibly the way my perfectly organized life has been thrown off-kilter in the space of a few days.

That's why I'm opening my door, clutching my new laptop like it's some kind of shield. Like bringing work somehow makes this not exactly what it is—me, breaking every rule I've ever made about relationships, about families, about keeping my heart safely locked away in carry-on sized pieces.

And there he is, in all his delicious dressed-down glory—wearing a faded t-shirt with a small hole at the neckline, worn sweats, and looking so hot I can hardly breathe.

"The kids?" I ask, because it is the easiest thing to say.

He steps inside, but not before putting the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of my door. "Finally asleep, thanks to the amazing babysitter the front desk sent. Took three stories and two glasses of water, but they're out. Though Jace did try to negotiate for a snack."

"Good negotiator?"

"Scary good. But sleep won."

"Got my new laptop." I hold it up like evidence. Like proof that I'm still professional. Still in control.

"Great. Glad to see," he says, not even looking at it. Instead, he steps closer, his hand taking my face, and my carefully constructed walls disappear as fast as I put them up.

"I don't do this," I whisper.

"Which part?"

"Any of it. The families. The complications. The..." I gesture between us.

"And now?"

Instead of answering, I kiss him. Not gentle like before, but this time, hungry, demanding, like I've been thinking about it for way too long. We stagger into my room, and my laptop hits the couch—carefully, I'm not risking losing another—and his hands are in my hair again.

All rational thought goes out the window, and I’m one big ball of compulsion with no ability to restrain myself, or even remember who I really am.

And I love it.

"Your article?" he murmurs against my mouth. “How’s that coming along?”

"Well, I’m conducting very important research."

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