Page 42 of When It's Us
I meet his dark blue gaze and force myself to focus on breathing, matching mine to the steady rise and fall of his chest. How does he do it? How does he know exactly what to say to stop the wheels of my mind from spinning out? Normally, the man drives me fucking crazy, all laid back confidence and panty-melting smiles. Hutch both infuriates and somehow calms me in the easiest of ways. It’s maddening.
“That’s it. Just breathe.”
I let my eyes slide closed and exhale a breath. The fear of letting go of control isn’t my only worry. I crave spontaneity, passion, and feeling like I can do anything I want,beanyone I want. I long to be the me that I wasbeforekids. I used to grab life by the balls, live every day to the fullest, and damn the consequences. But it’s been so long since I’ve actuallybeenher that I’m scared of what that looks like. Do I even know how to be her again?
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says, voice low, tone soothing like speaking to a spooked wild animal, “but youcando it, California, if you want to. You have it in you.”
A new fear creeps in—one I don’t expect. Not the fear of trying and failing, but something sharper. The fear of disappointingHutch.
Why? I couldn’t tell you exactly. It’s not about him thinking I’m weak or incapable. It’s not pride I’m worried about.
It’s his.
Somewhere along the way, I started wanting him to be proud of me. I crave his praise—his quiet, grounded approval—and I don’t even know when that started. But it’s there now, settled in my chest like a secret truth.
I don’t know much about the man standing in front of me, not really. But what I do know, Iwant. That freedom he walks around with. That self-assured independence that seems woven into his DNA.
Maybe it’s the steady rhythm of our breathing, the weight of his hands on my shoulders, the slow sweep of his thumbs over my skin—or maybe it’s this new, raw realization—but when Hutch glides his hands down my arms, I actually exhale. And for the first time all day, I relax. Just a little.
It only lasts a second before doubt creeps back in. “But what if—”
“Don’t think about ‘what if’. There’s too many variables to ‘what if’. There’s only a choice.Do it or don’t.”
I stare at him, willing my limbs to quit shaking and to stop being a little bitch. I swallow hard. “I hate choices, remember?”
His normally teasing tone overflows with sincerity and his eyes have a softness to them as he watches me. “I won’t force you, but you’re a fucking badass, you know that, right?”
DoI know that? Am I a badass or am I just a mom? Is it possible to be both?
Almost as if he read my mind, he goes on. “You keep two little gremlins alive on a daily basis, and you have for almost six years.That’shard. This? This is a fucking cake walk compared to that. And you might even have a littlefun.” That last word is punctuated by two pumps of his eyebrows.
“And we both know how I feel about that,” I toss out sarcastically, but bantering back and forth with him relaxes me more.
He smirks, and it’s so sexy. This sensual, cocky, infuriating man believes in me. It’s doing crazy things to my insides. Okay, that’s something I’ll have to unpack later.
Hebelieves I can do it. I have to believe I can, too.
His gaze is intent on mine. “Come on, California. Live a little.”
He hits me with that panty-dropping grin, dimples popping, and eyes dancing with mirth. I swear to God someone should make him a sign to wear around his neck that saysBeware of Dimplesbecause I’m pretty sure the look on his face and those dimples are what finally convince me that Icando this.
“Okay, fine,” I say quietly and then poke a finger into his chest, “but if I die, I’m blaming you.”
He takes my hand. The touch of his skin on mine and the sound of his chuckle combined are rich and warm, like a balm to my frazzled nerves.
“That’s my girl,” he praises, and I’m so fucking glad he doesn’t seem to notice the hitch in my breath at his words.
Because I’m not his girl. Not even close. But now I can’t stop thinking about what that would look like, how it would feel to actually be his. Gone is cocky Hutch and in his place is a gentle,encouraging, and yes, still a stupidly good-looking man who has convinced me to hurl myself off into the great wide fucking yonder without so much as a bit of flimsy nylon between my legs, but he’s different like this. And I really, really love it.
“Ready?” one of the guides says as we approach.
“Absolutely,” Hutch replies and shoots me a wink as he gets settled into his harness and clips onto the zipline.
Hutch nudges me with his elbow, and I nod jerkily at her. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Hutch leans forward and whispers in my ear. “You’ve got this, California. I’ll see you at the end.”
And then he’s gone.
