Andrew: Can I come over?

Ashton: Busy.

Andrew: When will you not be busy?

Ashton: Don’t know.

Andrew: I know you’re mad at me.

Ashton: Your detective skills are remarkable.

Andrew: And your snark skills are sharp as ever.

Andrew: Kitten, please.

Ashton: I’m not ready yet.

Andrew: When will you be ready?

Ashton: I don’t know.

Ashton: I’ll let you know.

Ashton stared at the phone in her hand. It was a new one; the one she’d dropped in the parking lot the night of her attack had cracked when it fell from her hand, and though she could have probably used it, she hadn’t liked the reminder of what happened.

Of how it made everything change.

Of how it derailed her and Andrew.

She’d transferred the pictures across though, and even though it had been several days since she’d asked him to leave her apartment, she couldn’t bring herself to change their picture on her lock screen.

She loved him, even if she was mad as hell at him.

Still.

Part of her felt like she was being unreasonable and she should talk to him, let him come back, but another part wasn’t so sure.

She’d gotten so caught up in them finally getting together that she’d forgotten that she’d always planned to do motherhood alone. Not that she had to, but the worry that she was only with him for support had returned when she realized he was taking over her every move.

In some cases, she didn’t mind. He did the laundry and the dishes and most of the cooking. He made the bed in the morning with surprising skill, and he always carried the grocery bags up the stairs and into their apartment.

Their apartment. She didn’t even know when she’d started thinking of it as theirs and not just hers.

But she did, and now it was empty without him here.

The flip side of all that help though, was the feeling of being stifled. Of not being trusted to do the right thing by herself and by her baby. He drove her everywhere. She couldn’t go for a walk in broad daylight alone. He worked every shift with her behind the bar, even going so far as to complete employment information for himself with Austin, so he’d be covered by their insurance.

He meant well, logically, she knew that. But he made her feel like she couldn’t do anything and she didn’t want to be helpless.

She wasn’t helpless. She’d made a plan—a plan to embrace motherhood alone—knowing all the ways her life would have to change to accommodate it. The attack was . . .

It was scary, there was no denying it. But she’d moved on. She reminded herself that he was one angry addict, and that he was now locked away and hopefully getting the help he needed. She reminded herself that it was something extraordinary—it’s not like she wandered around in the dark, alone, most nights. Or any nights, really.

It was bad luck and a bad man and a bad, bad night.

But she was strong enough to move on and she didn’t like feeling as though Andrew didn’t believe that about her.

The phone in her hand vibrated. Another message from Andrew.

Andrew: Just checking in. Are you ready yet?

He’d been sending her the same text for the past few days, after the first night he’d been over at Aaron’s place. She’d heard from her brothers the next day, and they’d both mentioned him getting so drunk he’d passed out.

She felt bad about it. She did.

But she also felt a little like he deserved the hangover she was sure he’d experienced in the aftermath.

She thought about his message—was she ready yet? Did she know what she wanted? Before she could reach an answer, her phone vibrated again but this time, it was a call, not a text.

And it wasn’t from Andrew.

“Hello?” Ashton answered the call despite not recognizing the number.

“It’s me.” The familiar voice made her glum mood dissipate immediately.

“Bianca, oh, my God.” She held the phone away from her ear to look at the number again, noting the California area code. “Are you back in the States?”

“Just arrived. How are you?”

“I’m . . . I’m good. I missed you. When are you coming out here to see me?”

“Soon, soon. How long until my niece arrives?” Bianca wasn’t her sister, but she was as close as, and her daughter would absolutely be calling her aunt. “I wanted to make sure I don’t miss that.”

“Seven weeks to go. Unless she comes early. Or late.”

“If she’s like you, she’ll be right on time.”

That made Ashton smile. Barely anyone knew her as well as Bianca did—and she missed having her friend close by. She’d been traveling off and on for years, and their time together was always too short.

“I hope so. I’m getting tired of being pregnant.”

“Is that boyfriend of yours not helping? He’s not one of those not my kid, not my problem types, is he?”

Ashton was already shaking her head in defense of Andrew when she replied. “No, God, no. He’s amazing. Maybe—maybe too amazing?”

“What the hell does that mean? Too amazing? Is there such a thing?”

“He’s just been . . . a lot, lately.” She laid out all the things that had changed since the night of her attack, and waited to hear what Bianca had to say.

She gave all the good advice.

“You need hear him out. And give him a chance to apologize. Not to mention, you probably should have said something to him sooner about it, rather than letting it all blow up.” There was censure in her friend’s voice, but also care. She was being honest, only ever honest, and Ashton knew she was lucky to have that.

“You’re right.” And she was. “I should go, B.” She needed to text Andrew and tell him she was ready.

“Good. I’m going to look at flights out there and I’ll send you details once I’m booked. I have news too.”

“You do? What?”

“You’ll see.”

Ashton’s mouth dropped at the call disconnected. “Not fair,” she said to no-one, her call screen morphing back into the picture of her and Andrew, before she tapped to open her messages again.

Ashton: I’m ready. Austin is in charge today, so come by whenever.

Andrew: I’m on my way.

The immediacy of his response made her smile. He was eager, she thought, and so was she.

She’d missed him. She wanted to talk to him and let him explain. She wanted to know that they were okay, or that they would be.

God, she hoped they would be.

In preparation, she brushed out her hair and changed from the yoga pants she had been wearing into a pretty dress she’d picked up at a maternity store that her friend, Brighton, had recommended. It was a blue similar in color to her eyes, and the cut made it fall over her expanding belly in a way that made her feel good about the fact she couldn’t see her feet.

And she couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to for a couple of weeks.

She’d just turned on the coffee machine when there was a knock at the door, and the sound of it gave her a little pang.

He knocked. He had the key she’d given to him a couple of days after her attack—a key that had still been waiting where she’d left it that night—when she got home from the hospital.

But still, he knocked.

She walked quickly over to the door, checking through the peephole to make sure it was him before swinging it open. “Hi.” The greeting came out a little bit breathless, but that’s because he made her feel that way.

Breathless.

Sometimes because she was so annoyed she forgot to breathe, but also because he was so hers.

“Ashton.” He said her name on an exhale, the relief in his voice making it sound like he couldn’t believe she was there, in front of him.

“Come on,” she said, cocking her head slightly, gesturing for him to head into the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. It’s decaf though.”

“Ugh, what?”

“Sorry.” She pointed at her belly while making a face. “Pregnant.”

“Oh, right. I knew that.”

“That I was pregnant. Yeah, I’d hope so.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “No, that you weren’t supposed to have too much coffee.”

“At this point, I’m drinking it out of habit. I don’t even like the taste all the much.”

“I can make you hot chocolate. You love hot chocolate,” he said, before biting his lower lip and adding, “I mean, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to . . .”

He was trying to not intrude on her space, on her decisions. She could tell. And she appreciated it.

For the first time, she started to feel like maybe, just maybe, it’d be okay.

“I’d like that,” she replied, taking a seat at the kitchen table and watching him move around the kitchen once he got the go-ahead. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

He turned around, leaning against the counter so he could face her. “I’m sorry, Kitten.”

She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned back around and finished making her drink, sliding it in front of her before taking the seat across the table.

The same position they’d had two other important talks in.

“This table is starting to become kind of vital to our relationship, wouldn’t you say?” she said, though she didn’t know why. To get the conversation started? To break the silence?

Either way, it worked.

“Are we still in one? A relationship?”

“Yes. I mean, I want to be. But we need to—” She stopped short, not wanting to tell him what he needed when that was part of the issue she’d taken with him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I was scared after—Well, I was scared and just trying to make sure nothing else happened to you, and I didn’t realize I was smothering you.”

“Okay.”

“Simon told me that I needed to let you tell me what you needed. And I needed to tell you what I needed, too.”

“Simon’s smart.”

“And handsome, according to your brother,” Andrew added, a smile lighting his face properly for the first time since he’d walked in.

“You’d hope he’d feel that way; they are married.”

“Austin said it.” Andrew’s smile grew into a full-on grin. “It was strange.”

Ashton clapped a hand over her mouth. “When did this happen?”

“Last week. We all got drunk, except Simon, who doled out good advice and water and aspirin.”

“Sounds like him,” she said, fondly. Simon really was the best of them, she thought, recalling the conversation she’d had with her brother where they’d agreed he was going to be the favorite uncle.

“Anyway. I’ll be better. And if I’m not, tell me. Please? Sometimes I forget you’re not like Kennedy was, in the end. When she really couldn’t do much of anything for herself and it was just easier to do it for her than to watch her struggle.”

Ashton’s heart dropped as she realized she hadn’t really factored that in. She’d known that Andrew was protective, that he liked to be in charge, but somehow, in that, she’d forgotten that he’d spent years looking after his sister. A woman so sick she needed every ounce of help he’d been able to give—and then some. “I’m sorry, too.”

He was shaking his head, but she kept on, “No, I am. I didn’t think about Kennedy, or about what you were used to giving. I was only thinking about what I was used to getting, and what I wanted. I thought I was giving you hints that I needed you to stop, but it wasn’t enough. That part, but only that part, mind you, was my fault.”

“Yeah, it really was.”

“Hu–wha?” she asked, the strangled noise stifled by her impulse to laugh.

“I mean, it’s really not my fault that you thought I’d be able to pick up subtle hints. Kitten, if you need me to do something or not do something, you need to say it. Explicitly. Or else, whoosh”—he flew his hand over his head—“it’s going to go straight past me.”

She nodded. “So, now what?”

“What do you want?”

“You. I want you to come home, and I want to look for a place with you.” She smiled, adding, “I’d like you to keep working at The Avenue with me and Austin, but maybe not on top of me.”

“I think I do some of my best work on top of you, actually.”

She snickered, nodding in agreement. “Best left for the bedroom, though.”

“Or that one time in your desk chair.”

“That never happened.”

“Well, it’s going to, if I’m working there with you.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Good. I want to work there with you, and yeah, part of it is because I want to keep an eye on you, but also because I like it. I like the atmosphere and the free booze.”

She rolled her eyes. “Most places give insurance as benefits. We give tequila and wine.”

“And whiskey.”

He watched her face light with laughter as they joked about employee benefits. She’d taken the time she’d needed and now, she was taking him back.

Thank God.

“I’m going to be doing some consulting for my old firm in New York. They called me a few weeks ago and offered me the chance to work from here, remotely, when they needed my expertise.”

“I told you they knew you were too good to let go. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged, not wanting to admit the truth, but needing to get it all out in the open. “I didn’t want to give you a reason to kick me out of The Avenue. Not that it stopped you.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to be able to stop me from doing what I want. But if you ask me, or talk to me about it, I can do this amazing thing called compromise. Have you heard of it?”

“I caught your brother and Simon in a compromising position once, does that count?”

“Oh, Lord. Please don’t elaborate.”

“Sorry. And yeah, I can compromise. Except on one thing.” He took a deep breath, watching as her face changed from amused disgust at the idea of Simon and Aaron in a compromising position, to concern about whatever he was going to say next. “I don’t want her to be your baby. I want her to be ours.”

He didn’t say anything else, because he didn’t think he could get the words out. So, they sat, looking at one another with no words between them until Ashton stood and moved around the table to him.

He pushed back his chair enough that she could sit herself on his lap, her weight greater than the last time he’d held her like that, but still just exactly right for him.

“Well?” he asked, worried about what she was going to say next.

Her fingers touched the greying hair at his temples and then pushed in to tangle among the strands. Her lips started at one cheek and kissed up and across his forehead and down to his lips. She was showering him with her affection and, fuck, if it wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

“I’m sorry I said that she wasn’t, because she is. She has been from the day we found out she was Ashton Junior.” Her words were said softly, but none had ever had greater impact on him. “Wait here.”

She tried to stand from his lap, but struggled, her belly making the movement far harder than it should have been. Because he was a nice guy, he placed his hands on her hips and helped her to stand.

And if his hands snuck around to her perfect ass as he did so, then so be it. It was just an accidental benefit. Nothing more.

He waited for her at the table, the sounds of rummaging piquing his interest. He couldn’t fathom what she was doing, but he wasn’t about to question it, or offer to help.

If she wanted help, all she had to do was ask.

He was finally home; he wasn’t about to screw it up all over again. Especially since . . . “Hey, did I mention I sold my apartment?” he called to her, raising his voice so she could hear him over the sounds of her searching.

The noises from the other room stopped. “You did?” she called back.

“Yeah, I figured it increased my chances of you not being able to get rid of me entirely.” And because he’d had a ridiculous offer for it and he’d have been stupid not to take it, but hey, he’d let her know that little detail another time.

Her laughter rang out, filling the apartment, and filling him with a heady mix of relief, happiness and probably more horniness than he should admit to.

It took nearly ten minutes for her to return and during that time he managed to talk down his dick, finish the decaf she’d made and the hot chocolate he had, and move the evidence to the sink so she maybe wouldn’t realize he’d stolen her drink. Both of them.

She hadn’t mentioned the missing Pringles yet, either, he realized.

“Here, look at this,” she said, walking into the room holding a thin folder out for him to take. “Where’d my drink go?”

“I–ah, it was cold. I’ll make you another.” He kissed her forehead, because he could mostly, but also so she wouldn’t see the guilt in his eyes, and made short work of getting her another hot drink.

Then, he sat back down and opened up the folder.

Staring back at him was him.

Okay, it wasn’t actually him. It was the profile of Ashton’s sperm donor, a little picture of the man as a child paper-clipped to the form. And he looked so much like Andrew knew he had as a kid, he did a double-take. “He looks like me,” he said, dumbly, a little struck by the resemblance.

“Read the profile,” was all she said in return.

It was him. Not exactly, but from the career—electrical engineer—to the hair and eye color, they were the same. Although . . . Andrew couldn’t say he was a fan of building model airplanes—yet. “What? Is this—did you?” he asked, wanting to understand, but not quite sure yet that he did.

“I got to pick. I think I told you that already. I could have any one of the ‘deposits’ that they had, and this is the one I chose. I didn’t really think about it, until just now. Until you said that you wanted her to be ours.”

“I do want that. Really bad, and I wasn’t expecting to.”

“No, I wasn’t either. But look at that. I picked you, basically. Of all the profiles they gave me, I picked the one that was most like you. And I didn’t even realize.” She paused, before adding, “I want her to be ours, too. And I think I always have.”