Page 24 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Then, after that call, I knew it was more than that. Because when she showed up for me on that call, I realized I already knew she saw more of me than anyone else, and that’s because I promised her no bullshit. I promised her I’d show her the real me.

So yeah, now I’m in shit.

Because I thought I could just let those facts be.

I thought I could quietly appreciate her from afar.

But now? Now I see Chris with the little skip to her step as she carries the gifts back to the house with me.

I see Chris with that sundress blowing in the breeze around the smooth skin of her calves.

Each time she passes me with another present, she laughs, and each time, my breath gets stuck in my throat, because she’s not just beautiful.

She’s a fucking angel. Wisps of hair glide around her face, buttery afternoon sun lighting them up like spun gold.

Her lashes dip as she helps me with the last package, a massive box that was actually easier for me to carry on my own.

Her dress is backlit by the sun, and the shape of her body, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast cast in bas-relief like a statue in a museum—all of it has my thoughts expanding to things much more dangerous than a crush.

At that thought, I don’t even need to work to pull my face into a frown. It lands there all by itself. My heart thuds as awareness spreads through me.

“We’re stuck,” Chris says as she sets the last package down.

I drag my eyes from her to see we’ve blocked the door with presents. “Hang on,” I say. I manage to weave my way through some and bend over the others and push the door open. Everyone must have migrated out back, because inside, it’s quiet.

“You sure this is enough?” Chris laughs at the pyramid of presents in the living room after we finish dragging everything inside. The crooked bridge of her nose wrinkles as she eyes me.

Laughter sounds from outside, and briefly, Chris turns to look there. “I guess we should go to the back,” she says.

I nod. Then I say the weirdest fucking thing. “You know, my mom used to take me to museums,” I blurt out. “Art museums.”

Chris blinks. But she takes it in stride. “Oh yeah?”

“She hardly ever came out here. My dad separated us on purpose…doesn’t matter. Anyway, my dad hated them. Said they were for pansies. He’s a homophobe, among other things.”

What the hell is wrong with me?

Chris looks back at me, her head tilted. “Well, that sucks very much.”

“I just…there are tons of museums here. Do you like them? If you do, you should see some while you’re here.” I swallow.

“Hopper…why are you telling me this?” Her words aren’t harsh. They’re just the opposite. They’re curious. Like she’s a little confused, but still happy I’m sharing this with her.

“Because…” I clear my throat. “You look like a painting.”

For a moment, the only sound is the clinking of glasses outside.

And the rush of blood in my ears. But I keep going, because I’m a fucking idiot, and when I go in, I go hard.

“Your face—you look like that famous one with a girl and an earring, even though your earrings are different and you’re not wearing a headscarf thing. But the eyes, the…” I laugh.

Chris has gone completely still, her fingers pausing where she was straightening out her dress earlier. Her hand goes to her stomach.

What the fuck am I doing? “I’m…tired. It’s been a long day.”

But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t drop her eyes from mine either.

I keep seeing the way Chris looked at me in that chair while I apologized to her way too late.

The way her fingers grazed across her stomach like she was holding on to something there, some secret.

Some pain. I keep seeing how she looked so fucking beautiful the day after that, having defrosted just a little.

I keep thinking about how I want to say things that annoy her just to hear what brilliantly cutting thing she’ll say back.

How the guy at the grocery store thinks I’m so weird for only ever buying mandarin oranges; how I want to put them not just in the kitchen but all over the house so I can catch her doing the little toss she does with them before eating them, like they’re the best thing creation’s ever made.

“Vermeer,” Chris says finally.

I blink.

“ The Girl with a Pearl Earring ,” she says.

“That’s the painting, right?” She hangs an arm over the top of her head to mimic the headscarf and parts her lips like the girl in the painting.

I want to tell her she’s ridiculous because that looks nothing like a headscarf.

But I also want to tell her I’m falling for her, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that information.

But then someone laughs a lot closer, and then everyone’s filing back inside, laughing and whooping and freaking out about all the presents, crowding around me, like this is my party.

Which it isn’t. This is Tru’s party and Tru’s celebration, and Tru looks amazing and is my friend and is about to have a baby.

But all the while, through all the flurry, Chris is staring back at me, her expression no longer annoyed.

Her eyes are no longer rolling or glaring at me, but just on me, a question there I’m not sure she even wants the answer to.

The shower passes in a blur of ripped paper and champagne and flouncy little food things Chris arranged for.

At one point, as the afternoon starts to spill into evening, that baby is handed to me, and I hold her so awkwardly I don’t know why I had that out-of-pocket thought that I could be a father.

The baby is beautiful, covered in frilly clothes and with a soft head that fits in the palm of my hand, chubby arms that kick and a mouth that chews at something that isn’t there.

But she’s so delicate, so tiny, I’m sure I’m going to break her.

I hand her back and take that as my cue to leave.

I glance through the crowd at Chris, who gives me a nod. I say my goodbyes, and at the door, Tru asks me how it’s really going with Chris.

“She’s incredible,” I say .

“She is,” Tru agrees. But something has shifted in Tru’s expression. There’s an awareness there. “Tell me what you like about her.”

I give her a look, like I know this is a trap, but she just stares back at me, daring me not to answer. Or to say something stupid like she looks like a fucking goddess in that sundress.

So I say, “She has good ideas. She thinks two steps ahead. She defends me in meetings and advocates for me, and I don’t know why, but it makes me feel like maybe I’m not a complete shit.”

I didn’t mean to say that last part. But all of it is true. Because how could an angel like Chris work for someone so awful? How could she laugh with someone that bad?

It’s wishful thinking, I know, but it’s what it is.

“Be careful, Hop,” Tru says softly.

I don’t ask her what she means. “I can take care of myself. Mostly.” I smile sheepishly. I give her a hug.

“Tell me the minute he’s born,” I say from the bottom of the steps. “I want the order to be you and Kevin, the doctor, then Uncle Hopper. And remember, Hop’s a great name.”

She laughs, despite the worry still lingering in her eyes.