Page 53 of Falling for You Again

I hear him go upstairs and long to follow him. Clients compliment my work. Friends, followers, they all admire my designs. But my parents never praise me, or each other, not like Aaron just did. I’m feeling good about myself, confident for the first time in a while.

I want Aaron to feel the same, and I start to think of ways to make him happy. He’s seemed mellow and somewhat distracted since Monday when he told his parents and staff about marrying me. Maybe I can take him to coffee tomorrow. I should find another book for him. He might have finished reading the ones I bought him. I could make him dinner on Sunday.

There are so many things I want to do for him and with him that I’m struck with a sudden realization: I feel good, not just about myself, but about everything.

Is this what it feels like to be in a positive and rewarding relationship? Is a marriage like Tam and Shae’s possible? One where the partners support one another’s passions as much as their love and respect? A relationship where we aren’t constantly vying for our partner’s attention and don’t guilt one another into spending more time with them because we’re jealous of the time they spend nurturing their art?

I start to dream it can be possible for me, and the next thing I know, I really am dreaming, and floating. My eyes flutter open. Above me,the ceiling is cast in muted gray. My cheek rests against soft cotton. My nose is pressing into cool skin. I inhale a long breath that smells faintly of fresh water, mint, and man.

I jerk, coming awake, and flounder when I can’t feel the ground underneath me.

“Shh. I got you.” The words are softly spoken.

Aaron is carrying me upstairs.

I study his profile, the straight line of his jaw and his day-old beard. “What happened?”

“I came down after my shower to check on you. You were passed out at the table.”

The last thing I remember is Aaron going up to bed. Then Blueberry came running down and popped onto my lap. I was petting him, then ... nothing. I wonder where my cat is now.

“You’re carrying me,” I mumble, feeling myself falling back to sleep.

“I tried to wake you.”

I mumble something about how tired I am and burrow into his chest. Then he’s putting me into bed and pulling the sheets over me. The mattress feels cool and soft.

“Good night, Meli,” he whispers by my ear. His fingers brush my hair back, lingering for a moment, and then he’s gone.

I jolt awake, looking around, barely remembering how I got here.

Aaron.

It’s dark out, the dim glow of the streetlamps outlining the shades in my bedroom. I glance at the time on my phone screen—3:47 a.m.—and look for Blueberry. He isn’t on my bed where he usually sleeps.

I toss aside the sheets and step into the hallway to go downstairs and look for him, but I notice Aaron’s light is on and his door cracked open. I go to his room, thinking he’s fallen asleep with his light on. But he’s reading in bed. And snoozing beside him is my cat.

Noticing me in the doorway, Aaron rests his opened book on his bare chest. “I was going to bring him to you, but he looked too comfortable. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

I walk into his room, stopping beside the bed. If Blueberry was asleep, he isn’t now. He looks up at me with his permawink and chirps, but he makes no move to get off the bed.

“Traitor.” I gently rub his exposed belly, and his purr becomes a deep rumble. “Fair warning: he does have a way of wheedling into your heart.” He found his way into mine within seconds of me meeting him at the shelter.

Aaron doesn’t bother to hide his guilty look. I suspect Blueberry has already burrowed into his heart.

“What are you reading?” I sit on the edge of the bed, not even thinking about what I’m doing or the line I’m crossing.

He shows me the cover ofThe Alienist.“I finishedProject Hail Maryon the plane. Have you read yours?”

“Halfway through.” I take the book from him, mark his place, and set it on the nightstand.

I should tell him to go to sleep, it’s late, but I don’t.

I should take my cat back to my room. But I don’t.

Aaron watches me closely as my gaze drifts over him, from his eyes to his mouth, down to his chest and the smattering of hair there. I rest a hand on the cut lines of his abdomen where the sheet meets his skin, and he sucks in a sharp breath. The heat of him sears my palm.

“Meli,” he whispers, and my eyes fly to his. He stares at me, waiting, unmoving.

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