Chapter 10

He comes in with a gleam of sweat on his forehead and a ravenous appetite.

But I've made enough lasagna and garlic bread to feed an army. (And enough Caesar salad to feed a slightly smaller one).

I dish up a bevy of plates for the soccer crew, lay them out on the island, and tell them to come and get it.

But because I know Pascal isn't going to take a plate from someone he might think would need it, that he'll stand back and wait for everyone to eat, even if that means he ends up with cold scraps (because that's all he thinks he deserves), I make him a special plate and bring it over to him.

Which also has the benefit of bringing me closer to him.

Because...moving forward.

Taking one step at a time.

And...maybe I want to take those steps forward with him.

There. I admitted it and didn't get struck down by lightning or burst into flames or become riddled with crippling guilt.

"Eat up," I say softly, pushing the plate into his hands.

He looks at me, those golden sparks in his eyes turning warm before he glances back down at his plate. "Salad?" he asks, glancing back up, those sparks now dancing with humor.

"It's good for you," I say softly.

"It's brain food!" Matteo chimes in, mouth full of romaine.

I lift my brows at Pascal, but his lips just twitch and he snags a plastic fork from the container I have perched in the middle of the island, scoops up his own forkful of salad and says, "Kid's not wrong." Then he shoves it into his mouth and grins over at Matteo.

They share a look that has my heart squeezing, and then they're eating and Matteo's talking—or really, rattling off a stream of information about his hockey team and his coach, about the Gold and the fact that Lucas sometimes shows up to help with practice, and then he's talking about his teacher and the sleepover he had the best time of his life at (his words) and then about his favorite YouTuber.

And the entire time, Pascal doesn't look impatient and isn't trying to extract himself from the conversation.

He's listening and engaged.

He asks questions, internalizes the answer, and...

My son is glowing.

Freaking glowing.

Which is why I know that this is right, these steps forward taken with a quiet, reserved man who relegates himself to the shadows.

It's why I know he needs help to see that he doesn't have to stay there.

And why I know I can be that person for him.

"You sure I can't stay and help?" Brit asks as Roxie pulls on her hand, nearly wrenching her bad shoulder out of its socket.

"No," I tell her with a laugh. "You've got your hands full." I nod toward Roxie, who's done another tug, making Brit wince. "You'd better go before Mandy has your head for messing up your shoulder."

Brit taps her nose. "Good point," she says. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

She allows Roxie to finish pulling her out the door (and dragging her down the driveway toward her car), calling her goodbye as she folds her leanly muscled body into the driver's seat and pulls away from the curb.

And then there are no cars left.

Because Pascal's is...in whatever shadow he parked it in.

Sighing, I turn back for the house, pad inside, and lock the door behind me. I hear the soft drone of the TV and start for the family room, intending to tell Matteo to wrap it up and head to bed, but when I step onto the carpet, I see Pascal has my sleeping son in his arms. "I'll just tuck him into bed," he says softly.

"Yeah," I whisper, heart squeezing. "Thank you."

A nod, and then he starts moving forward, slowly and carefully, as though he's carrying the most precious cargo on the planet.

And he is.

My baby. My heart. My soul.

I exhale, shaking my head, pushing down the seriousness of my thoughts in lieu of...enjoying this moment.

This man who treats my son so kindly.

And who looks at me?—

Like that.

My heart skips a beat as he strides back into the room

He slows to a stop and my breath hitches...because those sparks are?—

Burning.

For me.

He clears his throat and looks away. "I'll get the dishes in the kitchen and?—"

I move across the room, sneaky like a man who walks in the shadows.

And then I'm...toe-to-toe with him.

He doesn't move. Not one limb or finger or muscle. Not one inch.

Hell, I'm not even sure that he's breathing.

"Pascal?" I ask softly.

"Yeah," he rasps.

"Kiss me."

It's the bravest thing I've ever said, born of longing and need, loneliness and the way this man makes me feel.

But he still doesn't move—for long enough that my courage begins to erode and I find myself inching backward, putting some space between us?—

Only I don't get there.

Because suddenly an arm is around my middle and a big, warm body is flush with mine and?—

His mouth is descending.

His lips are hitting mine, tongue sweeping forward. I part and let him in, the kiss going from tentative and uncertain to intense enough to turn me to ash in the next heartbeat. I sigh in pleasure, melting against him, feeling all of those muscles, the hard planes of his body against the soft of mine, smelling him—man and spice and mine.

He groans as he yanks me closer, and then my feet are no longer on the floor. I'm in the air, his free hand encouraging me to wrap my legs around his waist, feeling—oh my—the hard length of his cock pressing against me as he turns, carries me to the couch, sinking down on it and?—

Oh.

That's nice.

His big body pinning me to the cushions, the heavy weight of him sinking into me, making me feel?—

Everything.

For the first time in forever, I feel everything.

I settle my hand over the back of his neck, keeping him close, never wanting to lose this feeling. I'm desperate to dive in, to allow it to surround me and suck me under and?—

"Pascal," I moan as he releases my lips, dragging them over my jaw, back toward my ear, tongue ghosting over my earlobe, tracing the shell of my ear. "Oh God," I whisper.

Because it feels good.

It feels great.

It feels so fucking great that I lose any semblance of control.