Page 42 of Jasper
Right now, Tessa’s arms are around my waist, her chest pressed to my back. Her presence doesn’t weigh me down. It feels right. Close enough to breathe her in. Most nights, that would be enough.
What gets me is the trust. It’s quiet and steady, and it cuts deep. I’ve had women want me. I’ve had them flirt, follow, shape themselves into whatever they think I need. Tessa doesn’t do any of that. She’s just here doing what she things is right.
Now she’s tied to all of this. My family. My world. My name, and my blood, growing inside her.
My thoughts are a mess. We’re almost at her place, and I’m not ready for the ride to be over. Her hands tighten around me for a second, like she feels it too. I don’t want to let go. I want to keep riding. Her heartbeat’s steady through the layers between us. But I pull into her driveway anyway.
She leans forward, taps my side. “Thanks for letting me meet your parents.”
“It was my pleasure. I think they figured I’d lost it when I told them you were pregnant.”
She smiles. “I don’t blame them. Ours is a wild story. Our kids probably won’t believe it.”
She unclips her helmet and runs her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it down. Her cheeks are pink from the wind.
Then what she said registers. My hands come up and rest against her stomach. “You said kids. Plural. Is that your plan? Keep going one after another?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “With IVF they sometimes implant more than one embryo, we could be having twins or triplets.”
Something’s wrong with me, because the thought of her carrying twins—or more—makes my body respond in ways it probably shouldn’t. I shove that image aside, along with any thought of Octomom or a house full of screaming babies. I’d need half a staff just to keep up.
I’m pulled back to the moment when her hand rests on my chest.
“Are you being serious right now?”
She presses her lips together to hide a laugh and shakes her head. “I was teasing, they just implanted the one embryo. You want to come in for coffee?” she asks, setting her helmet on the seat. “I want to make sure you’re not half asleep when you ride back.”
I should say no. Be smart. Responsible. Do the thing a guy does when the timing’s off.
Instead, I say, “Yeah. I’d like that.”
She unlocks the door and steps inside.
I follow her in, ducking my head slightly. I’ve been in a lot of houses—some spotless like museums, others crowded with booze and chaos. This place feels like it was made for someone who wanted quiet.
She moves through the space easily, heading into the kitchen and reaching for the coffee things. It’s all automatic. Like her hands know what to do even if her mind’s somewhere else.
I lean against the wall, my arms crossed. “You always keep the good stuff like pot pies sitting on deck for late-night guests?”
She glances over her shoulder with a smirk. “Only when they show up on Harleys to get them.”
I let out a low laugh, the tension from the ride bleeding out slowly. “Glad I made the cut.”
The coffee starts to drip. The scent rises, rich and fresh. Her place is quiet. There is no TV or music playing, just the two of us and our easy banter. It feels like we could fill it with love and babies if we half tried.
And this is the moment I realize I don’t want to just drink coffee here tonight. I want to get closer to her more than I want my next breath. To know how she thinks and what’s important to her. The only way to find that shit out is to spend time with her. Because I want everything with this woman. I just have to find the right path to get us there from where we are now, which is strange and messed up but still real. Only if she wants the same. It’s not enough to have her in my bed. I want her to look at me with that open, steady kind of affection men don’t talk about but every one of us secretly craves.
We sit on the sofa like this is just a casual coffee break and not the edge of something bigger. For a while, we drink in silence. I know what’s coming. I feel it in the quiet between sips, in the way she stirs her coffee even though the cream is already mixed.
“You want to talk about Silver and why she’s convinced she’s got a chance with you?” she asks, her tone mild.
I wrap my hand around the mug, letting the warmth settle there. I keep my eyes on hers when I answer. “She’s not my ex, if that’s what you’re wondering. She always wanted to be.”
She watches me. Doesn’t speak. Waiting for more.
“I never flirted with her. Never touched her. Never invited anything. Even if I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world I wouldn’t touch her—not after what she did to my niece. She’s been hanging around the clubhouse for months, circling like a vulture.”
Tessa nods. “I knew she was trouble.”
