With a deep breath, she pulled the door open and stepped into the living room where Luke stood, rolling up the sleeves to his black shirt to reveal the corded forearms and all their delicious ink. His dark jeans fit him perfectly.
“Jesus. You look hot, flower.”
Hot didn’t begin to describe the feelings she had as she studied him. His grin, genuine, and for her.
His eyes trailed down to her stomach and his grin grew broader.
For the baby.
Was it possible to be jealous of a foetus?
“Why do you call me flower?”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I like it. Babe, sweetheart. They are more usual.”
“My dad was a Geordie.”
“A what?”
“A Geordie. My dad was born and raised in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. You wouldn’t have understood a word he said, but he called my mum flower. I rarely heard him say her real name. Always flower.” A sad smile replaced his grin. “A better man didn’t walk the earth than my dad. It’s a pity he can’t see any of this, although he’d likely kick my arse for making a meal of it.”
“Making a meal of it?”
“A mess. Anyway, I don’t know why I was suddenly reminded of flower and started calling you it.”
Thoughts came fast and furious. The sweet name his father had used for his mother. The wave of sadness she felt, sure that his emotions had taken form when he talked about his father. The impact the loss of his dad must have had, and the fear he might feel with his own child, as a result.
“I like it, Luke. Flower.”
He nodded. “We should take these pictures. We have about half an hour before we need to leave. Where do you want me?”
Wasn’t that a leading question? She wanted him just about anywhere. But not when his position had only changed because he’d seen the baby. Not when she couldn’t be sure if his feelings were real or a contact high from seeing their son.
“What about by the palm near the bar cart? It should coordinate with what I’m wearing, and the light should be good?”
She took a moment to compose herself as she set up the lighting and her camera to capture the shot. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I’ve set a sequence timer. It will take a shot every few seconds so we can take lots and decide which we like best.”
Luke held his hand out to her, and she looked at it for a moment before taking it. “How do you want to stand?”
Suddenly, everything she knew about how to capture the best angles, which side was her best, whether or not to lower or raise her chin, disappeared. She was so close to Luke, she could smell his cologne, all woodsy, not a trace of anything remotely floral. His warmth seeped through her clothes.
They stood next to plants and the bar.
Things they’d bought just so they could take pictures like this. Things Luke didn’t own, hadn’t wanted, couldn’t afford. But they were here, because she’d asked him if they could add them. And he’d agreed.
Fake. All of it. It wasn’t Luke. Hell, it wasn’t even really her.
“You okay, Willow?”
“I’m not sure,” she murmured.
“You look like you just got hit by a cricket bat. Come here.” He pulled her into his arms and enveloped her, running his calloused palms up and down her chilled arms. “You’re cold.” Luke studied her face. “What’s going on?”
It would be too easy to just lean into him, to tell him what was on her mind.
“No, I’m good. Maybe a lot of excitement and adrenaline or something. Look, let’s take our pictures. I’m probably hungry because Lord knows I’m eating enough for four of us.”
“You sure?” He ran a knuckle along her jaw.
Don’t lean in.
“I’m sure.”
“What do we do?” Luke asked.
“Smile. Look lovingly at each other. Make it swoony and believable.”
“Not that hard, flower.”
Luke pulled her against him, his hand over her shoulder as they both smiled. Then, he took her hand, spun her out, then pulled her back again where she fell against his chest. Laughter bubbled over. “Luke,” she gasped.
“What. You said make it believable. And you’re laughing, right?”
His playfulness relaxed her.
He placed her in front of him, slid his fingers between hers, then placed both of their palms on her stomach, his hands splayed over their child.
And goddamn, the ache in her heart that wanted it to be real was back. A dark whisper that his attention was . . .
Fake.
She gasped, and grinned while her eyes stung, grateful he couldn’t see her as they both looked at the camera that clicked each time it took a photograph.
His hands moved over her, leaving goosebumps across her skin, making her thighs tighten with excitement. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts that ached for something more. His arms wrapped around her until she was pressed up against him, until her dress was pulled tight over her bump, leaving her feeling like a sexual woman with needs instead of a pregnant mother-to-be.
Luke pressed his nose against the side of her neck. “I’d forgotten just how good you feel in my arms, flower.”
His lips brushed the skin of her neck, and she momentarily tilted her head to give him room before she remembered.
This wasn’t really about her.
Taking another breath, allowing herself just another second in his arms, she stiffened and stepped away. “That should be perfect. Let me just go look at them and touch it up real quick.”
Too scared to look Luke in the eyes, she hurried to her room. Within seconds, she was looking at the images on the screen.
Stiff, at first.
Then, laughter. So real and free as her hair spun and she didn’t care about angles and shadows.
And, heat. Photographs she could never show anyone. Photographs that revealed what she already knew.
It had meant as much to Luke as it had to her. Only, for different reasons.
They were flammable.
Like they belonged on the cover of a romance novel. Tattooed hands interlaced with her own French-manicured, thin, gold-ring-clad fingers. Holding something so special. Something they’d created.
She scrolled back to the top of the images to an image she’d seen earlier. One when he’d just gathered her hands in his, just before she’d sunk into the moment of them.
Another where his hands were on her bump—she was looking down at them while Luke looked straight into the camera. His blue eyes piercing, his hair just a little ruffled.
She flopped back in the chair for a moment.
Could she really go ahead with this?
Could she tell the world their news this way? Wouldn’t it be better as a private thing?
“How are you doing?” Luke said, knocking on her door and pushing it open.
“Good,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.
Faker.
“Which one did you pick?” he asked.
She tipped her chin in the direction of the screen. “This one.”
“Pretty. Can you send me that one?” He pointed to one where they were laughing, the side profile of her bump visible.
“Sure. Why?”
Luke shrugged. “I just like it. Less staged. More you.”
“More me?”