Well Matched (Well Met #3)(91)

He looked at me, incredulous. “I don’t give a damn about kids.”

“But you like kids.”

“Sure I like kids. The ones I teach. The ones I coach. The ones my cousins have, that I can feed sugar to and give back to their parents.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I want kids of my own.”

My argument faltered; I hadn’t expected him to say that. “But your mother,” I said. “She’s looking forward to you having kids. She told me—”

“My mom’s full of shit.” He put his hands on his hips and paced away from me, around the kitchen, then back toward me. “She wants grandchildren like the rest of the family. I keep telling her it’s not going to happen. Jesus, April, I spend five days a week with kids, and more on Ren Faire weekends. That’s enough for me. Besides, you were there with my family. You saw all those kids running around. There’s plenty of Malone DNA out there in the world without me contributing to the gene pool.”

He seemed so certain that my lips quirked in an almost-smile. But my insides still churned like I was on a roller coaster. “I don’t know how to do this,” I finally confessed.

“Do what? Love someone? Be in a relationship?”

I nodded. “Yes. All of the above. But I’ve never been happier than I was this past summer with you. And I’m sorry it took you walking away from me that night for me to realize it.” I waved a hand toward the living room. “I painted that wall because this house is my home. Willow Creek is my home. I’m not going anywhere.” My breath shook as I sucked it in, and those tears I thought I’d gotten under control started to obscure my vision, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I had this one chance to make it right. I needed him to understand. “You are my home.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, and he shut his mouth with a snap.

“Here,” I said. “Let me get you that drink.” I turned to the fridge.

A small laugh stuttered out of him. “Still not drinking that apple juice that you like so . . .” Now it was his turn for his voice to fail as the refrigerator door creaked open. There, nestled next to the milk, were six green glass bottles. The six-pack of his favorite beer that I’d picked up on the way home.

I took one out and pressed it into his hand. “No more sneaking around,” I said. “No more pretending. I want you to . . .” God, I really should have thought this out beforehand, because all I could think to say now was . . . “I want your beer in my fridge. I want you in my life. With me. For real this time.”

He blinked down at the beer in his hand as though he’d never seen one before. But when he looked up at me, his expression was unsure. Unexpectedly vulnerable. “You say that now. When you’re by yourself, and Caitlin isn’t home. What about in November, when she comes home for Thanksgiving? Are you gonna bolt on me then?”

“No.” But he looked dubious, and who could blame him? I’d been a dick lately. “You still think . . . okay. Hold on.” I picked up my phone from where it was on the counter, and called Caitlin. The phone rang twice and I hoped my kid wasn’t out partying yet. I needed her help here. (I really should have planned this better.)

Caitlin picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Mom!”

“Hi, honey. I’m putting you on speakerphone, okay?” I hit the button and put the phone down. Mitch and I stood, shoulder to shoulder, with the phone in front of us.

“Sure. What’s up? Who’s there?”

“I was thinking.” I was still talking to Caitlin, but I looked straight at Mitch while I did so. “I’m planning on dating Coach Malone. That okay with you?”

Caitlin’s pffft sound came through the phone loud and clear. “It’s about time. Is that who’s there?”

“Yeah.” Mitch’s voice was thick, and he coughed into his fist. “Yep, I’m here.” He didn’t look away from me.

“Be nice to my mom, okay?” She was trying to sound stern, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

I swiped at the tears that wouldn’t go away, and when I looked over at Mitch he was blinking quickly too. “You know it.” To his credit his voice sounded perfectly normal, if a little more subdued.

“Good.”

After I disconnected the call I punched up Emily’s number, and Mitch groaned. “Okay, you’ve made your point, you don’t have to—”

“Hey, April! What’s up?”

“Oh, not a lot,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that Mitch and I are—”

I couldn’t even finish the sentence before she started cheering. “Finally! Because if I have to hear one more sad karaoke number from him, I’m gonna—”

“Bye, Emily.” Mitch mashed the End button.

Once the call was disconnected and the echo of Emily’s laughter faded, silence hung thick in the air between us. I’d laid it all out there, but he hadn’t really said how he felt. I couldn’t take it anymore. “What are you thinking?”

Mitch looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head and turned away. But before my heart could sink all the way into my stomach, he plucked the bottle opener from its place on the refrigerator door and popped open his beer. “I’m thinking we spent the better part of a week painting that living room, and you go and undo it just to prove a point.” He stuck the opener back on the door and shook his head again before taking a swig of beer. His eyes danced at me as he swallowed, something I hadn’t seen in far too long.