Beyond These Walls (The Walls Duet #2)(9)

Whether I was living in an apartment in Santa Monica, blocks away from the sandy beach, or in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world, it didn’t matter as long as I was alive.

Grace had been right this morning. I had become slightly complacent in my new life, trying to fit in, when I should be embracing my newfound existence. When given a second chance, you shouldn’t fade into the background. Rather, you should explode like a rainbow of colors dripping down a canvas.

Jude’s voice suddenly cut through my deep thoughts, and I looked to him in confusion.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I asked whether you ever felt deprived because of everything that had happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just, today, seeing you with Zander, plus the crazy dreams . . . it makes me wonder if you ever wish for more than just me in this world.”

I turned to face him, my hand reaching up to stroke the stubble on his chin. “Are you asking if I want a child?”

He nodded.

“Don’t you think we should get married first?” I joked.

A halfhearted smile tried to form, but I could see his mood was still sullen.

“Jude, please don’t think I ever feel deprived. This life, everything I have, is more than I ever expected. Before I met you, I fully believed I’d die without one of those wishes on my Someday List ever coming true. But here I am, healthy and strong, making each and every one of them come true because of you.”

“But what if you want more—later.”

“You,” I said, tilting his chin upward so that his gaze would meet mine, “are all I need.”

As his lips touched mine, I curled my fingers into his hair. I’d never been surer of anything in my life.

Jude was all I’d ever need.

But as our kiss deepened, the sudden vision of my dream flashed through my memory.

My fingers reached out in the darkness to find him, but he wasn’t there.

“ARE YOU SURE I can’t help with anything?” I asked, pressing mute on the TV once again, as the sounds of clanging pots and pans came bustling forth from the kitchen.

“I’m okay!” Lailah hollered back.

I turned around from my place on the sofa to see her moving about in the kitchen like a chaotic housewife. Wrapped in a frilly pink apron—given to her by Grace as a housewarming gift when Lailah had moved in here—she darted from the refrigerator to the stove and then back to the counter where her recipe book rested. Then, she just repeated the process.

Placing my head on the back of the sofa, I grinned. “Positive?”

She stopped mid-step and turned to see me watching her from the couch. A quirky smile spread across her face. “Maybe. Okay, you want the honest truth?”

“Of course,” I answered, my head perking up to listen.

“I am in way over my head,” she groaned. “Thanksgiving dinner—even for two people? It’s hard! I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

I laughed, rising from the sofa to join her in our massive kitchen. I never understood why Roman had selected such a large place for me to live in when I arrived back home. I knew he was outlandish, having a place several floors above us that was twice the size of ours, but when I’d entered this house for the first time, all I had seen was empty space.

With Lailah here, it finally felt like a home.

“Can I please help you now?” I begged. “I know men are supposed to sit around, watching football, on this particular holiday, but I’d much rather spend time with you.”

“Even if I put you to work?” she asked.

“I have many fond memories of the two of us in kitchens,” I said, remembering a similar situation much like this where we stood around a large metal counter and attempted to cook a meal together. It hadn’t been a date—at least, I hadn’t planned it that way—but it was the first time I’d seen her as something more than just a girl whom I owed a debt.

“I think your culinary skills have greatly improved since then,” she commented.

“Thank God for that.”

She put me on potato duty while she began assembling the apple pie.

“Remember when we went apple picking last fall?” she asked.

I watched her carefully measure out the cinnamon and sprinkle it over the heaping bowl of apples.

“Yeah. You were so excited that we ended up coming home with an entire bushel.” I laughed.

She gave me a doubtful look. “It was not that many. Maybe half. But I kept thinking about that last night as I was doing my last-minute grocery shopping, and I stopped to pick these up. I was enthralled with the entire process of apple picking—the cute little baskets, the fresh air and freedom to pick as many as you wanted. I remember feeling like that a lot during that first year after my recovery. I don’t ever want that to end.”

I stopped mid-potato and set the peeler on the counter. “Then, don’t. Just because you’ve been apple picking doesn’t mean it can’t be just as exciting and wondrous the second or third time around.”

“I know.” She smiled and moved toward me. Her hands were covered in cinnamon and sugar from mixing the apples together, and she had a mischievous look on her face.

My eyes followed her fingers as they slid up my arm and finally disappeared around my nape of my neck, leaving a sticky trail of sweetness behind. She reached my mouth and watched as I parted my lips and licked the sugar off her fingertips.