Page 72 of About That One Night
I raise an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You keep saying ‘she’ and ‘her,’ and we don’t know yet if we’re having a boy or a girl.”
His eyes light up, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “True, but wouldn’t it be incredible to have a little baby Zoe in my arms? Then, we’ll think about a boy—or two.” His voice rises with excitement, hands gesturing animatedly as if he’s already imagining a house full of children.
I feel my chest tighten, a mix of anxiety and warmth flooding through me. But I stop him. Someone has to be the voice of reason here. “Focus, McCallister. You’re already thinking about more when we haven’t even discussed what all this means to us,” I say, my voice softer than intended. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “The last time I checked—when I got the news of the pregnancy—you said you didn’t want a family.”
His expression shifts, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. “Listen, that day, I was more concerned about you and whatever I said . . .” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes locked on mine. “My only worry was taking you to my house and putting you in a bubble so whatever was happening to you wouldn’t harm you.” The intensity in his gaze makes my heart stutter.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. “Well, no need to put me in a bubble,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ll try my best not to do it,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye that tells me he’s not entirely serious.
“First things first, we have to focus on your health and the baby’s. I can add you to my insurance so I can take care of the bills.” He leans forward, and suddenly he’s all business. “We should move you to another apartment. I think the one on the main floor is a two-bedroom and empty?—”
“Whoa,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why would you know if there’s a vacant apartment in my current building?”
He flinches, a guilty look flashing across his face.
“McCallister?” I tap my foot, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation.
He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze. “I might own the brownstone,” he mumbles, then rushes to explain. “It was a lot easier to . . . I just wanted to take care of you while you were trying to find yourself.”
“Max,” is all I manage to say, my voice cracking slightly. A warmth blooms in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. “Why?”
He stands abruptly, hands fidgeting at his sides. “Can I get you the lemonade while I put my thoughts in order?” he asks, already backing toward the kitchen.
I tilt my head, curiosity overriding my initial confusion. “Thoughts in order?”
He pauses mid-step, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Caleb says I need to use my brain before I open my mouth.” He snorts, shaking his head. “Hence earlier, I was more concerned with defending myself than processing what you were telling me. And I fucked up what should’ve been a very significant moment for the two of us.”
“You did?” I ask softly, hope fluttering in my chest because maybe I’m really not alone in this.
He nods, his shoulders slumping as he leans against the counter. His eyes meet mine, filled with regret and something deeper. “The woman I’m in love with told me she’s pregnant and instead of . . . I don’t know, being happy or at least asking if you’re okay, my defensiveness just activated. I spewed a lot of nonsense.” His voice is thick with emotion, his usual confident demeanor replaced by vulnerability that makes me hold my breath for a second while I analyze those words.
Does he really love me? It could be just something he’s saying because now he thinks it’s the right thing to say—and do. Isn’t it? Before I start making up my own assumptions and placing a wall between us I justsay, “It was pretty shitty.” My lips twist into a wry smile.
Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a mix of amusement and admiration crossing his face. “And as always, I appreciate that you don’t take my shit. Maybe that’s one of the things I love the most about you.”
My stomach flutters at his words, but I push the feeling aside, crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t let him smooth talk me into something that’s not really happening. I have to put a stop to it now before I believe his lie. “You keep throwing the L-word around as if it’s confetti, and that’s not how life goes,” I say, my voice coming out sharper than intended.
“But you’re . . .” Max’s voice falters, and he holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Give me a second, okay? I really need you to let me organize my thoughts. Then I’ll take the floor because the last thing I want is to fuck up again.”
I watch as he moves to the kitchen, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt. The clink of glasses and the soft whir of the refrigerator fill the silence between us. Max’s movements are deliberate as he prepares the lemonade, his brow furrowed in concentration and the tip of his tongue shows slightly.
The muscles in his jaw work as he pours the lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the glass, and when he finally looks up, he says, “Okay, I think I’m ready so please don’t interrupt me.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Maximillian
As I handthe lemonade to Zoe, I take my time to really look at her. Her skin glows, her eyes sparkle, and she looks so beautiful and radiant that it momentarily takes my breath away. It makes me fall in love with her a little more and also wonder what it’s going to take to convince her that I’m here for the long run—forever—because with her, those words don’t scare me.
Zoe Harper makes mewant love. We’re talking about real love. The kind of feeling that transcends every fleeting moment and anchors me to something real, something profound and so deep it might be seared in the fabric of history and time.
She makes me yearn for someone to share the highs and lows of life with; the mundane and extraordinary, and even the simple act of growing old together.She’s fearless in the face of my flaws, unhesitant to call me out when I’m wrong, and bold enough to challenge me in ways no one else ever has. Her laughter is a melody my heart seeks, and her willingness to listen to my dreams and even encourage me to reach for them, no matter how ridiculous, is a gift I cherish beyond measure.
I love her with a depth that only my heart and mind can fathom, in a way that demands complete surrender. She’s not afraid to call me on my bullshit, to tell me I’m wrong or to challenge me. Yet, she laughs with me and doesn’t mind listening to whatever I have to say.
I love her in a way only my mind and my heart can accept it—in complete surrender. But will she believe me? Will she ever love me?
