Page 11 of After this Summer (Seasons in Montana: Summer #11)

INDIE

“ W ow,” I breathe, staring up at the cabin before us. “Did you build this?”

“No, but I did a lot of the remodeling myself.”

“It’s beautiful.” The wood is stained a rich cherry color with a big front porch and black shingled roof. Two rocking chairs sit off to one side of the door with hanging baskets filled with brightly colored flowers. “Isn’t it too early for flowers…?”

“They’re fake,” he says and I gasp, making him chuckle as he pushes open the driver’s side door. “Reid finally got annoyed at having to replace the dead ones so this was the compromise.”

“That’s actually pretty genius.”

“It is and he’ll love the compliment.” Winking, Beau rounds the hood and comes to my side, offering me his hand as I slide off the seat and onto the ground. “Welcome home,” he murmurs and I smirk.

“We just gonna completely gloss over the fact that I’m not lookin’ at Wren’s apartment?”

“Stunner, I’m about to make you my wife.” The possessiveness in that statement has a little thrill shooting down my spine as heat pools between my legs. “I’ll be damned if you’re living anywhere but under my roof.”

“I think I’m supposed to be offended by all that bravado, but I can’t seem to manage it.”

He laughs, the sound low and throaty as we climb the porch stairs, his hand pausing as it reaches for the doorknob.

“The house is big enough for you to have your own space. I don’t want you to think…” He swallows hard as his eyes search my face. “I want you to be comfortable here. No expectations.”

“Except trying to get me to fall in love with you,” I tease because he needs it—we both do because opening this door is about to change everything.

“That’s a goal, not an expectation.”

“Get inside, Heartthrob. You’ve been about as sweet as I can handle.”

Chuckling, he pushes the door open and steps aside, waiting for me to enter before following in behind me.

“Here we go,” he says, flipping on the light, revealing a sparsely decorated space. The walls are a light gray, the kitchen flowing into a living room with a vaulted ceiling and a massive stone fireplace.

It’s very masculine and surprisingly cozy but it’s empty.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I ask, looking around, the rug in the center of the living room having obvious indents where a couch used to sit.

“I want you to be comfortable here and I know you like the stuff from your house.” I gape at him, but before I can respond, he grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs. “Here, look. That’s my room,”—he points at the door at the end of the hall—“this one is the office, and this is the guest room.”

The guest room is painted a soft blue with a large bed in the center, and the office is a crisp white with a wooden desk against one wall. “And where would you like me to be?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes,” I answer automatically, watching as he swipes his palm over his mouth.

“I want you in my bed and the guest room will stay the guest room and we’ll transform the office into the nursery.”

“I’m not ready for that,” I admit, thankful that I don’t need to add I’m not ready to be in your bed because he’s already nodding. The worst part is that at my core, I want to be in his bed. It’s just not a good idea.

“You can take my bed or the guest room, and then we can move your furniture in so you’re comfortable.”

“You don’t—” I start, rubbing my hand over my forehead because this is so much.

Too much.

But do we even have a choice?

“I want you to like it here,” he says softly, the words slipping through the walls I’m desperately trying to build around my heart. “And hey, I think Pen left you something downstairs—like a welcome basket or something. And there’s stuffed shells in the fridge because?—”

“Because they’re my favorite.” He nods, his dark brown eyes imploring me to throw him a bone. Slowly reaching for his hand, he lets me take it, his gaze following the movement as I press his palm to my belly. “Baby likes stuffed shells too.”

“Yeah?” he asks, the word choked with emotion that feels so incredibly intimate I can’t help but lighten the mood.

“Yeah, and Beau?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re starving.”