For an entitled, irresponsible playboy, Marco is remarkably prompt and reliable. I invited him to dinner at my apartment and asked him to arrive at seven. At 6:59, I hear a knock on my door.

“Just a second,” I call out.

I haven’t seen Marco in four days, not since Camp Discovery ended. It’s insane how much I’ve missed him.

As I make my way across my living room, my strappy sandals click noisily on the hardwood floors. Stopping in front of the door, I smooth my hands over my hair, which I’ve pinned into a high sleek bun, and swipe my finger over my front teeth to make sure they’re free of lipstick.

Okay, now you’re ready.

I’m smiling when I open the door, but when I see Marco, my lips part in a soft gasp. He brought me flowers—a bouquet of orange roses, Peruvian lilies, hot pink Gerbera daisies, and purple dianthus. They’re exactly what I would’ve chosen if I’d picked them myself, proving once again how well he listens and how well he knows me and my likes and dislikes.

Spending so much time together at camp really deepened our friendship. Although truth be told, I’m not sure friendship is the right word to define our relationship anymore, especially after that kiss.

He said we’d talk about it, but we haven’t yet. I’m not sure I want to talk about it. What is there to say, really?

I can’t imagine Marco would want to get involved with me, not when I’m expecting another man’s child. And even if he can overlook the baby bump, I’m not sure I want to have a fling with him. It would hurt too much when it was over. 

Marco extends the colorful blooms to me. “For you.”

“They’re gorgeous.”

His sexy smile makes my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti. “They’re nothing compared to you. You’re gorgeous.”

As I take the flowers from him, I feel my cheeks prickle with a blush. I wanted to look good for Marco, so I picked a sleeveless wrap dress in daffodil yellow that knots at my waist and conceals my slight baby bump. The high-low hem shows off my legs, along with my super-cute floral sandals.

His smile broadens, as if he knows how much his flattery flusters me. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” I say, opening the door wider.

As he crosses the threshold, I take note of his clothing. More often than not, he dresses casually. But tonight, he’s wearing a long-sleeved button-down and dress pants.

The orangey-pink hue of his shirt reminds me of fresh-caught Norwegian salmon. While I don’t like the fish, I definitely like the way the color complements his shiny dark hair and bronzed skin. 

The shirt must be made of stretch cotton because it molds to the straight lines of his shoulders and the thick curves of his biceps. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing his forearms—his very sexy forearms. I have a thing for them ... the way the veins and muscles pop when he uses his hands.

He moves deeper into my apartment, giving me a fabulous view of his ass, outlined by his slim-fitting gray trousers. When he glances over his shoulder, he catches me looking.

Mortified, I jerk my gaze to the door and push it shut. I put too much force into it, and it closes with a bang.

He stops in the middle of the living room, and with his hands on his waist, he turns in a circle. I’m not sure if he’s checking out my apartment, which he’s never seen before, or offering me the opportunity to check him out. 

With the bouquet clutched to my chest and my eyes averted, I rush past Marco and into the kitchen. I find a vase in an overhead cabinet and fill it with water before unwrapping the blooms. As I arrange them, I feel his eyes on me, an unwavering scrutiny that makes me clumsy. 

“Thank you for the flowers,” I say, setting them on the granite bar that separates the kitchen from the living area.

“You’re welcome.”

In an effort to be a good hostess, I ask Marco if he’d like a drink. He declines, saying that he can wait until we have dinner.

Speaking of dinner ... I gesture to the stove behind me. “I made osso buco. It needs another thirty minutes or so.”

He tilts his head. “I love osso buco.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you made it ... because it’s my favorite?”

“Yes. I hope it turns out well. I haven’t made it in a long time.”

He takes a few steps until he’s standing in front of me. “I was surprised when you invited me to dinner. I was sure you’d want to avoid me after our picnic.”

After we kissed. After I admitted that I don’t know the identity of my child’s father.

“That was my intention,” I admit.

A laugh rumbles in his chest before he says, “What made you change your mind?”

“Let’s sit down,” I suggest, waving my hand toward the sofa and armchair.

He inclines his head. “After you.”

By habit, I claim my usual spot on the far end of my dark blue sofa. Made of soft chenille tweed, it’s my favorite place to curl up to watch TV or read a book.

Marco sits down on the other end instead of choosing the armchair upholstered in multicolored polka dots. Angling his body toward me, he rests his arm on the back of the sofa and props his ankle over his knee. His eyes settle on me, a hint of a smile on his lips and an expectant look on his face.

“I had my four-month ultrasound this morning,” I say. 

His face goes blank. “Is everything okay with the baby?”

The concern shadowing his voice compels me to give him a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine. My doctor said the heartbeat is nice and strong.”

A strange expression crosses his face, almost wistful. “That must’ve been amazing—hearing the baby’s heartbeat.”

My smile widens, almost by its own volition. “I’ve heard it before, but it’s amazing every time.”

“What does it sound like?”

Trying to capture the sound and speed of the baby’s heartbeat, I say, “Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Like a steam engine.”

I lean forward and nab a thick, oversized book from the cream-colored leather ottoman that doubles as a coffee table. Before I can crack open the spine, Marco scoots closer and reads the title out loud, “The LEGO Architect.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “You like LEGOs?”

“Yes. I also like architecture. This book combines both. It has pictures of the most iconic buildings in the world, all built with LEGOs.”

I flip through the book, looking for the plain white envelope I placed between the pages after I got home from my doctor’s appointment. When I find it, I remove it and return the book to the ottoman.

Marco’s gaze snags on the envelope. “What’s that?”

“After my ultrasound, the tech asked if I wanted to know the sex of the baby. I asked her to write it down and put it in an envelope.”

His eyes shoot to mine. “Is that it?” His eyes dart back and forth between me and the envelope. “You haven’t opened it yet?”

Holding the envelope in both hands, I set it on my knees. As I stare down the stark white paper, I say, “Tessa offered to go to the appointment with me, but I told her not to worry about it. And then, when I walked in and saw all those other women there with their partners ... I felt so alone.”

Marco makes a pained sound, like someone punched him in the stomach. “Cassie—”

Needing to get everything out, I keep talking: “I asked the tech to write down the sex of the baby and put it in an envelope because I wanted to share that moment with someone special. I immediately thought of Tessa, but then I realized...”

I hesitate, struggling to find the words to explain the realization I had while lying on the exam table with ultrasound gel on my stomach.

“What did you realize?” Marco asks.

His voice holds a note I’ve never heard from him before. He sounds fearful and hopeful at the same time, which doesn’t make sense to me.

“I realized I didn’t want to share that moment with Tessa. I wanted to share it with you.”

I feel him shift beside me, moving closer until only a few inches separate us. His arm presses against mine, warm and solid through the fabric of his shirt.

“Why me?” he asks softly.

I look up and meet his eyes. “Because you’ve kept your word to be there for me. Because you didn’t judge me when I told you the truth about my baby’s father. Because you know my deepest, darkest secret, and I’m positive you’ll never betray my trust.”

Holding up the envelope, I say, “I wanted to do this with you, and now that you’re here, I can’t wait another second.”

I flip it over and tear open the seal. Marco squeezes in so he can see too. Spotting the small piece of paper inside, I tug it out. It’s ... blank?

“What the—”

“Turn it over,” he urges.

I twist my wrist to reveal the other side of the paper. Simultaneously, Marco and I read the word aloud, “Girl.”

“A daughter.” His voice is full of awe. “Oh, Cassie, we’re ... you’re going to have a daughter.”

I barely hear him. I’m still struggling to process the information.

“A daughter,” I repeat slowly, feeling as if I’ve never spoken the word before.

He laughs with unmistakable delight. “I can see her now—a little girl just as kind and smart and enchanting as her mother.”

He wraps one arm around me, and without asking my permission, he places the other palm on the curve of my stomach. Maybe I should be irritated by his presumption, but I don’t mind.

“Che benedizione,” he says, gently patting my bump. 

“Huh?” I say dumbly.

“What a blessing,” he translates.

Suddenly realizing I forgot the other crucial element of the gender reveal, I say, “I have the sonogram picture. Want to see it?”

“Of course.”

I make a move to rise, but Marco stops me by saying, “I can get it if you’ll tell me where it is.”

“In my purse,” I answer, pointing to my bag where it’s hanging from the handle on the closet door.

Marco returns with my purse, and it takes me only a second or two to find the sonogram image, which is protected by a little photo folder. I wait until he’s settled next to me and then pass it to him. He opens the folder and stares down at the black-and-white image within.

I glance sideways at him and see that he’s completely engrossed in the sonogram image, his eyes riveted to it. He’s rubbing his forefinger over the paper, tracing the shape of the baby’s head and body.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

Even though I’ve stared at the sonogram for most of the day, I lean closer to get another look at it. “She’s about the size of a banana, the tech said.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me.” He turns his head, and I meet his gaze. “You have no idea how much it means to me.”

A wave of gratitude sweeps over me. I’m so grateful this man cares about me enough to support me through a really challenging, scary time of my life.

“Thank you for being here,” I tell him.

He leans toward me and brushes a brief, sweet kiss on my cheek before slowly drawing back. As I stare into his dark eyes, another emotion makes itself known—one completely unrelated to gratitude. It’s love.

That’s right. Love.

I love Marco. Not as a member of my extended family. Not as a good friend.

I’m in love with him.

I can’t say for sure when it happened, but I am sure the feelings have been building inside me for a while. They’ve been dammed up, like a swollen river, and over the past couple of months, the pressure created little cracks in the dam. At first, only a few trickles found their way through. But now a flood is rushing through me, drowning me with its intensity.

This knowledge that I’m in love with Marco doesn’t make things easier. It doesn’t make things less complicated. If anything, it makes everything worse.

Now that I know these feelings exist inside me, what am I supposed to do with them? It’s like owning ice skates but having no clue how to skate and nowhere to learn the skill. Or in my case, being too afraid to try them out because I might get hurt.

Marco’s eyes search my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but whatever it is causes him to inch forward until our mouths touch. The press of his lips against mine is tentative and unsure, an intriguing contradiction to his usual cockiness.

I close my eyes and part my lips to let him know that I want his kiss. I want more than that. I want everything. 

Curving my hand around the back of his neck, I exert just the slightest pressure to bring his mouth into more contact with mine. He groans, the sound vibrating against my lips, and any hesitancy he may have had evaporates like morning dew under the sunlight.

His mouth opens over mine, gentle and persuasive. I can sense his need, but he’s holding back, probably because I freaked out the first time we kissed. But things are different now. He knows the truth about the baby, and I know the truth about my feelings for him.

His stubble grazes the skin around my mouth, making my lips sensitive and tingly. I nibble his lower lip, smooth and plump like a grape, before nipping it. He growls deep in his throat, hinting at his excitement, and I soothe the tiny bite with a swipe of my tongue.

When he slips his tongue into my mouth, I welcome it by stroking mine against his. As our tongues twirl together, his taste fills my mouth, dark and potent and hungry.

Our kiss gets wetter, and he thrusts his tongue into my mouth like he’s imagining what it would be like to fuck me. I’m thinking about that too. My pussy isn’t wet, it’s dripping, and I know he’d slide inside me with no trouble at all—nothing but hot, slippery pleasure.

Breaking our kiss, he pants, “Cassie ... I need ... to ... to touch you.” His voice, normally so smooth and resonant, is gravelly and hoarse. “Please. Let me?”