Page 65 of Let You Love Me

I blush, willing the fire to recede at the exact moment he shifts and peers over his shoulder. His left dimple appears. “You’re so damn cute when you blush.” He says it like he’s reciting the weather, like it’s nothing, just a fact he’s pointing out.

He reaches for me and brushes a thumb over the warmth in my cheeks I imagine are now candy-apple red.

Swallowing, I remind myself to breathe when he pulls his hand away just as quickly, focusing back on the book again. “Wow. She was so tiny,” he says, staring down at the very first picture which is an enlarged photo of Sophie seconds after she was born. “And look at all that hair!”

I blink, slightly whiplashed from his touch as I scoot a little closer so I can see and focus on the present. “She did have a lot of hair. After she was born, everyone was amazed I didn’t have heartburn while I was pregnant.”

He glances at me, a furrow in his brow, and I laugh, explaining, “They say that’s a sign your baby has a lot of hair.”

He nods and returns to the photo. “Did you have morning sickness?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Maybe a little bit of queasiness at first, but nothing major.”

“I remember my mom’s pregnancy with my sisters well because I was older, and she was sick as a dog for a while. Fucking sucked for her. I felt so bad.”

I bite my lip and stare at his profile like he’s a riddle I’m trying to solve. He’s so fucking perfect; I wonder if he could possibly be real. Then again, my experience with men is limited. All I’ve ever known are the immature guys from high school: Chance and the boys my father coached. It’s not like I’ve had much time in the last four years to date or form any friendships with members of the opposite sex.

Maybe this is what the majority of men my age are like, though I doubt it. Something tells me guys like Teagan don’t come along too often.

Which is why you should grab him and hold on tight.

I shove the errant thought aside. I’m not in a position to even entertain a relationship, but that doesn’t stop me from slyly taking in his masculine features. The thick, long lashes and the bump in the middle of his nose that makes me wonder if he broke it at one time. His angular jaw below chiseled cheekbones. The tiny freckle right above the corner of his full lips. The mess of loose, blond curls, ones I want to run my hands through but know I shouldn’t.

My gaze shifts again and our eyes lock, only for mortification to set in.

He caught me staring.

Oh shit.

I should be embarrassed and look away, but somehow, I can’t. I’m transfixed. Under his spell.

His blue orbs deepen to midnight, and my pulse wallops in my ears like the steady beat of a drum.

As if he can hear it, his gaze shifts to my neck, then north where he homes in on my mouth, and my lungs freeze.

All the air is sucked out of the room. I’m in a vacuum and I can’t breathe.

As if to emphasize this point, my heart rages behind my ribs, racing like a jack rabbit on speed.

Am I having a heart attack?

He shifts forward, leaning toward me, and he licks his lips.

Bump-ba-bump-ba-bump.

Yep. I’m definitely having a heart attack.

His focus narrows further, and everything inside me tightens. My throat. My chest. My thighs.

My hand flies to my chest, clutching at my shirt, afraid it might beat straight through my skin as I try and orient myself.

In an act of self-preservation, my gaze falls to the page he’s on and I cringe.

He notices.

But then, he seems to notice everything about me, doesn’t he? I’m starting to wonder if he’s intuitive.

He brushes a finger against the photo. “You were beautiful.” He says it like a prayer, and I stare down at the photo to see what he sees. It’s me in a hospital gown, pulled down low enough for Sophie to rest on my chest, but not so much it’s indecent. It was taken shortly after I gave birth, before they whisked her away for a bath and testing and the millions of things they do to tiny humans once they enter the world.