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“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say, throwing the rest of my things in my bag. “Bacon doesn’t even make sense. I want french toast smeared in grape jelly. You must think I’m crazy now.”

“I think you’re a lot of things. Beautiful, interesting, funny, smart. But crazy isn’t even in the running.” Yep, there are those ovary heart eyes again. Sigh.

* * *

RAND

So, just to set the record straight, I would rather have sex with Brontë than with my hand. But she looked like she was two seconds away from a complete panic attack.

I get it. I really do. We’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross. She might be freaking out about it, but I’m not. Sometime late last night, I realized she’s mine. There’s no going back.

While she lay, snoring with her hair splayed across my chest, I was scheming. Maybe not scheming, that seems like a sinister word. But I’ve been working on a plan. One that would end with her and the baby living with me. I just have to convince Brontë that it’s the best thing for everyone.

“Good?” I ask.

She’s sitting across from me at a little local diner, putting away the french toast. I’ve managed to find someplace not far from the rental house. She’s eaten all of her breakfast and part of my order so far. Including the bacon.

“So good,” she moans.

This is a multi-step plan, in case you’d like to follow along. Step one: make sure everything is about her every time. Hence why I finished in my hand this morning.

Step two: be the best at sex she’s ever had or is likely to have in the future. That’s the reason I went down hard on her in the shower, even though I almost drowned. I did learn I can hold my breath for an amazingly long time.

Now, we’re on to step three: fill her every need instantly. Especially food. I was smart enough to research breakfast places within a ten-mile radius of where we were staying.

I’m hoping the appliances are ready to go in at the house today. That way, I can stock enough food to lure her to be mine. I’m a reasonably smart guy, I can learn to cook.

“Are you ready to hit the road?” I ask.

“I can’t possibly eat even one more bite, so might as well,” she says. With a groan, she leans back against the booth. “If I don’t stop eating like this, I’m going to be the size of a house by the time this little one gets here.”

“I don’t believe that. Doesn’t matter anyway. You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in my world.”

See how I did that? I’m now getting the heart eyes she gives me when I say something about how beautiful or smart she is. She has plenty of confidence. I just think not being able to control her body right now has her questioning everything.

This is the old-style type of diner, so I move to the cash register to pay. She joins me at the door, and we walk back to my car. We drive for miles while she stares out the window at the passing scenery. I wish I could read her mind. This would all be so much easier.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I say.

She turns to smile at me. “I was just enjoying the chance to think about nothing before returning to my chaotic life.”

“That’s why I’ve kept the sailboat all these years. It’s nice to pretend like you have no worries for a while.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Thank you for yesterday.”

“Of course.” Then I have a brilliant idea of how to spend more time together away from the prying eyes of a small town. “Hey, I need to start picking out furniture for the house. Would you consider going with me this weekend to start looking?”

“I would love to. I don’t think I’ve ever bought furniture. My apartment was already furnished. Even the bedroom. I’ll put together a list of places to look. This will be fun.”

Her smile lights up her face. Step number four: be her happy place. Sounds trite, but if she thinks of how happy she is any time she thinks of me, I’ve won a huge battle. So it seems I’ve got some planning to do.

“Ohh, a Dairy Queen. Let’s stop,” she exclaims a few more miles down the road. I check my watch. It’s been an hour since breakfast. With a shrug, I pull into the parking lot. She slings open the door of the car and hops out. I have to hurry to catch up.

“We’re eating ice cream for brunch?” I question. Not that I’m opposed to the idea.

“Large vanilla milkshake, please,” she tells the girl behind the counter. A few minutes later, I’m in a booth with something called a Blizzard sitting in front of me. It’s pretty good, even at ten in the morning.

“Are you going to want to get some lunch when we get back?” I ask.

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