Page 19 of Loaded Laces

I exhale and it’s shaky.

“I’ve been in awe of you from the moment I first saw you killing it in dodgeball on the playground in third grade.” His lips twitch. “And I fell for you when you punched Billy Conners in the nose for stealing Davie’s lunch in fifth.”

Surprised laughter slides out of me, and his face goes so soft that my heart squeezes.

Because his words settle deep inside me.

“And the first time I heard you laugh, I knew you’d be in my heart forever.” He bends a little, eyes holding mine with piercing intent. “You’ve always been the woman who haunted my dreams…and now you’rehere.”

My pulse is pounding through my veins, stealing my breath, making my head spin.

“So, baby,” he murmurs, stroking a hand lightly up and down my side. “Just…settle. Stay here in my house, gain a little breathing room, give us time to learn each other again and see what comes of that. Let me get to know that awesome kid you have some more, and just…give us a chance, arealchance.”

“To see what comes of learning each other again?” I ask, heart in my throat, my voice raspy. “To have a second chance w-withme?”

His eyes dance, and he cups my cheek. “I said all of that and you don’t think I want another chance with you, Bella bee?”

I don’t have any idea how to reply to that.

How to put into words what that gentle, teasing question does to me.

Because I want that so badly—to stay here, to learn him again, to keep him forever.

Because I’ve wanted it from the moment I broke us to give West a chance at his future.

But I don’t have a chance to ponder my reply, to speak it out loud.

Because Quinn’s voice echoes from inside the house.

“Mom! West! You coming?”

Nine

West

“Get it!”

Grunting, practically straining something as I kick out my leg (hello, groin muscles), I manage to get my foot beneath the ball and chip it back over to Quinn.

“Yes!” he shouts, running forward a few steps and catching it on his chest, allowing it to roll down to his feet.

The kid is agoodsoccer player.

His touches are controlled and natural, and he’s a fuck of a lot better at kicking the ball around than I am.

Hence the groin straining.

He flicks it back to me and I’m a lot less natural, but I manage to corral it and pass it back—something I accomplish only two more times before Belle pokes her head out into the back yard, face softening when she catches sight of us, and calls, “Dinner will be ready in ten! Time to wash up, honey.”

She’s talking to Quinn.

But she’s also talking to me.

And I can’t lie, I fucking love that—thehoney, the soft expression on her face as she calls that, the similarly soft one she wore when she shooed Quinn outside to “touch grass” and didn’t comment when I joined him.

She just smiled.

Same as she had when she came into the house this afternoon with a grocery bag (though Quinn had actually carried it in for her) and grinned at me before I could protest, saying, “Chicken pot pie for dinner tonight!”

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