Page 32 of Fearlessly Us

Drew gives me that same slow perusal from earlier today. “Nice shirt,” he says with a smirk, his eyes landing on my pink Lawyers Do It In Their Briefs T-shirt.

I shrug. “I like a good lawyer pun,” I say, sailing past him as nonchalantly as I can manage, pretending I’m totally fine with all of this.

Everything is definitely fine.

So completely fucking fine.

I jog down the stairs, trying to ignore the way my abdomen twists, protesting the sudden movement. The death cramps can last anywhere from an hour or so to a couple days and I’m lucky this time it seems to be the former, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still going to feel it. But the second I make it to the living room doorway, I forget to feel anything at all.

Because under the overhead lights set on low, my couch has been totally transformed into a cozy nest of blankets and pillows. One of my candles is lit on the coffee table, and one heating pad is spread onto the back of the couch, another on the couch arm, both plugged in and waiting. A glass of Sprite with pebble ice sits on the coffee table, along with a plate of what looks like eggs and toast and a bowl of mini-Snickers.

“Sit, Catie,” Drew murmurs from behind me, and when he puts his hands on my hips and guides me into the room, I feel that touch all the way down to my toes. When we get to the couch, he turns me around and pushes me gently down until I’m sitting with my back against the first heating pad. He flicks it on and then lays the other one across my lap, turning that one on too, the heat so welcome I have to bite back a sigh of relief. Then Drew reaches behind him and takes the plate, offering it to me.

With no reason not to, I take it from his hand. The omelet is so perfect it looks like it should be gracing the cover of some gourmet cooking magazine, and butter melts on the toast in little pools. There’s a pile of perfectly cut strawberries, and the care he obviously took to make this for me has emotion clogging my throat, my brain racing to find something to say. “You didn’t have to do this.” I stumble over the words, my cheeks heating with embarrassment that I can’t manage not to have an existential crisis over someone doing something nice for me.

I look up, my eyes meeting Drew’s as I consider what else I could say. Should say, maybe. Things like, Thank you for doing this. No one has ever taken care of me this way. I think I like it. Like you. I’m tired. So, so tired, and I sometimes wish someone else would take the reins for a while, but I don’t know how to be the kind of person who asks for that.

Drew studies me, head tilted to the side, and I fight the urge to fidget under his all-seeing stare. “Have you eaten today?” he asks simply.

I shrug, feigning a nonchalance I’m too exhausted to feel. “I’m fine.”

Drew sits down on the coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked if you’ve eaten today. So have you?”

I sigh. “Does five sips of an iced latte count?”

He shakes his head. “It absolutely does not. Eat, baby.”

He gestures to the plate, and the baby scrambles my brain enough to take a bite of the cheese and vegetable omelet. The second I do, the sound I let out is half moan, half groan, and all embarrassing. “This is amazing,” I mumble through a mouthful of eggs. “Like, literally amazing. My dad and Jack are the undefeated kings of breakfast, but nothing they make is as good as this.” I point at Drew with my fork feeling suddenly, miraculously better. Maybe these are magic eggs. Or maybe the magic is in the man who made them. “And if you tell them I said that, I’ll go to my grave swearing you’re a lying liar who lies.”

Drew’s grin could power the world and turns my insides into a tangled mass of something. Something I’m not sure I want to want, but I think maybe I’m too far gone to have a choice in the matter. “Your secret is safe with me. I wasn’t sure what you like to eat when you’re not feeling well, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with eggs. We’ll have to discuss your bread situation though, because store-bought, sliced white bread?” He shakes his head sadly, and I have to practically bite my lip to keep from smiling. “That’s just sad, Princess.”

I let the smile break free just a little, thinking it’s nice to talk to him like this. Nice that he didn’t ask me a million questions about why I got sick and how often it happens or a thousand other things I don’t want to think about. Don’t want to feel. “I like it for my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Drew’s face lights up again. “Peanut butter and jelly?”

“It’s my favorite. And also pretty much the extent of my kitchen skills.”

Drew looks delighted, and my mind goes momentarily blank at the way he looks in my living room, all tousled hair and bare feet and T-shirt that fits him so well it should be forbidden. He looks good, but more than that, he looks right. This man, who I recently wished extremely dead, looks right at home standing in the middle of my space. The space I rarely have people in—even the ones closest to me. The place I keep for me and me alone. The place I hide the deepest parts of myself, so I can be someone else outside of these walls. “Likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, lace underwear, punny T-shirts, bright-colored nail polish, and CIA spy movies,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s making a damn list.

“Hang on,” I say, my brain catching on his words. “How do you know I like spy movies?”

He grins again, reaching over and plucking the hairbrush from my lap. “Checked your streaming services while you were in the shower. I wanted to see what you liked so I could pick a movie. I thought you could use a quiet night.”

I narrow my eyes, mostly to keep him from seeing just how much I like the idea of a quiet night. With him. “Some people would call that snooping.”

“Some people would,” he agrees. “But none of those people are me.”

“So what would you call it?”

Drew leans over and kisses my cheek, adjusting the heating pad across my lap as my skin goes warm right in the spot his lips touched. “I would call it getting to know the woman I can’t stop thinking about. I think I might be obsessed with you.”

I scoff. “Obsessed with me? I’m a prickly lawyer with a near pathological need to help and a body that stages a full-scale rebellion at least once a month that can only be fixed by s—” I cut myself off before I say surgery, not ready to explain what I’ll be doing not too long from now. Drew’s face turns curious, but I plow ahead, hoping he’ll move past it. “Anyway, if even half of what the internet says is true, beautiful women throw themselves at you on the regular, and more often than not, one of them ends up in your bed.”

Drew’s face turns serious, his hands coming to rest on my knees and his eyes steady on mine. “I haven’t had a woman in my bed in a long time.”

“How long?” I ask, setting my half-empty plate on the coffee table, unable to look away from his golden gaze.

“Six months,” he says simply, pushing his hands forward, his fingers finding the spaces between mine. When he curls his fingers around, joining our hands together, my heart thrashes wildly, everything about this moment too much. Or not enough. I can’t quite figure out which, but I like it. Too much probably, but I don’t do one thing to make it stop.