Page 102 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I look toward the room at the end of the hall because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to kiss him in the laundry nook like a cliché with poor impulse control. “You’re annoyingly good at saying things that make me want to argue and then realizing I can’t.”

Julian leans closer, and I feel the warmth of his breath near my ear before he says, “That’s because I’m wise, Liefling.”

I turn my head to glare at him, which is a mistake because his face is right there—hazel eyes warm and mouth tipped into that little grin I love.

“Stop weaponizing Afrikaans at me,” I tell him.

His grin widens. “You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Julian says, and before I can come up with a decent answer, he steps past me toward the last room. “Come look at the nursery before you pretend you aren’t blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” I mutter, following him.

“You absolutely are.”

The nursery is empty, but it already feels like the center of the place. The room gets softer light than the others, filtered through the trees outside the window. Someone has taped paint swatches to one wall: pale yellow, soft green, warm ivory, and a ridiculous duck-themed wallpaper sample that I know in my bones Ryan had something to do with.

There’s a new ceiling fan, a closet with shelves already installed, and a wide wall that would fit the crib perfectly once we move it over. It isn’t finished yet, but that’s the point. It’s waiting.

I try to imagine Mila here. Safe and wanted. Surrounded by too many uncles and a nanny who runs the house more effectively than Killian does. A future tries to form in my head, and for once it doesn’t feel like punishment.

Julian is quiet for a long moment before he says, “This weekend?”

I glance at him. “For painting?”

“Yeah.” He nods toward the swatches. “We can get primer Friday, paint Saturday, second coat Sunday if it needs it. Maybe keep the duck cult to accents so Mila doesn’t grow up thinking she was raised in a pond.”

I laugh softly and step into the room, brushing a finger over the yellow swatch. “I kind of like this one.”

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Julian leans against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes on me instead of the wall. “It’s sweet.”

I roll my eyes because the warmth in his voice makes me feel exposed. “It’s paint.”

“It’s still sweet.”

“You have very strong opinions for someone who decorated his room like a tattooed monk with a gym bag.”

“My room has character.”

“Your room has laundry in three separate categories.”

His mouth curves slowly. “You spending a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, Eli?”

The question is so smooth and so blatantly meant to mess with me that my brain trips over itself. I turn toward him too fast and immediately regret it because he’s still leaning there and watching me get flustered.

“I’ve been in your room,” I say, which sounds weak even to me.

“You’ve slept in my bed,” Julian says, voice lower now, still casual enough that it could be a joke if his eyes weren’t doing that dark, focused thing. “That’s a little more specific.”

Heat climbs my neck. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Julian asks, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room.