Page 352 of Branded
Skidding feet and claws.
My family and Ethan greeting my pooch.
Then I was turning back to Jules, whose face was pale and eyes were wide. “Who’s talking to my son?” she whispered.
I winced. “My family,” I whispered. “With everything that happened last night, I kind of forgot to mention they were coming over for brunch.”
“Brunch—” She glanced to the side and then her eyes widened further. “It’s eleven-thirty.”
“I know, gorgeous,” I said, smoothing my hands up and down her arms. “And I’m sorry to spring this on you, especially with them already here?—”
“It’s eleven-thirty.”
“I know?—”
Her hands came to my cheeks as she sat up, the blankets falling to her waist. “No, honey,” she said. “It’s eleven-thirty and I—” A shake of her head. “I’ve never slept that late,” she whispered. “Not ever.” She jiggled my head. “Never, honey, and I don’t think I’ve felt this rested in…well, probably since I was old enough to start working.”
A bolt of anger through me.
I hated that for her.
But I didn’t have time to express that hate.
“You’re not freaking out,” I pointed out, needing her to focus on the situation at hand.
She still held my cheeks. “You love me. I love you. I think your family will see that.” She sent me reeling with that, from her calm acceptance of my family’s invasion. Reeling considering how long it had taken for me to get her here—and how much her calm, quick acceptance of my family being there today meant for us and our relationship, how much it meant to me in that moment. Then she stood up and took my hand.
“Come on, honey,” she said softly. “Let’s go downstairs.”
I found I couldn’t move.
Not when my love for her was expanding to epic proportions, not when it was burning through me.
She leaned in, touched her lips to mine. “Ethan is down there.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“And he’s making cinnamon rolls with your mom.”
“Yeah,” I whispered again.
“And…” Her eyes went hopeful even as her expression became unfathomable. “And I’ve never made cinnamon rolls with a mom, honey.”
I inhaled.
Then I whispered “Yeah” for a third time before releasing her and going to my closet, pulling down a sweatshirt for her (another she would probably steal). It was cold in my house in the mornings.
Since she’d followed me in, I tugged it over her head, then took her hand, led her downstairs.
“Let’s go make cinnamon rolls.”
Because Jules deserved to do everything.
But she especially deserved to make cinnamon rolls.
Thirty-Six
Jules
