Which means I fall asleep the second I sit on the couch.

And that’s the position I find myself in when Jake shows up on my doorstep.

I have a slew of missed messages and six missed calls—not all of them are from Jake. It looks like my Seattle Girls, as I’ve named the group, were chatty this morning. I have no idea how long he’s been ringing the doorbell, but considering that five of the last six calls came in the last eight minutes, I can guess.

I don’t have time to do anything but stumble to the door and throw it open.

His expression shifts from frantic, to relieved, to concerned in the span of three blinks. One of his hands settles on my waist and the other lifts, sweeping wayward strands of hair off my cheek. “Hanna? Are you okay?”

I can feel my face warming with embarrassment. “I’m fine. I fell asleep on the couch.”

“Oh. Okay.” His shoulders come down from his ears and his smile turns wry. “You must have been out cold. I’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes.”

“It would definitely explain the dream about an alarm going off that I couldn’t find.” I take a step back, noticing that my neighbor to the right, who’s always in everyone’s business, is pretending to trim her hedge. “You should come in. I’m sorry I’m such a hot mess.”

“You’re hot, but you’re not a mess.” He picks up his suitcase and a second bag—it seems like a lot for an overnight visit—and steps over the threshold.

“And you’re a liar, but I still like you anyway.” I give my neighbor a wave, so she knows I’m on to her, and close the door before she gets the idea to come over and ask a million questions.

Jake stands in the middle of my foyer, looking ridiculously delicious for someone who spent five hours on a plane. I glance beyond him, to the mirrored front hall closet door. My hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. I’m wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of sweats that are better suited for a twenty-five-year-old, not someone in their mid-forties. But Queenie gave them to me for Christmas and they’re comfortable, so I can’t resist wearing them.

“Oh wow, I need five minutes to freshen up.” I cringe at my reflection. “It’s a wonder you didn’t turn around and head right back to the airport. I look like yesterday’s garbage that’s been baking in the sun all day.”

One of Jake’s eyebrows pops.

I spin around and take a step toward the hall leading to my bedroom, where there’s a shower, a brush, and clothes that are presentable.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold on a second. Where are you going?” His fingers close around my wrist.

“To change.”

“You don’t need to change. Come here.” He takes a step closer and tugs me toward him at the same time. His arms come around me, strong and solid. He smells faintly like plane, but also like laundry detergent, cologne, and cinnamon, or mints, or possibly both.

“I probably smell horrible,” I mumble into his chest, but I melt into the embrace, needing it more than I want to admit.

“You smell a lot prettier than any of the hockey players I work with.” He drops his head, and I can feel his warm breath in my hair.

“King smells like the inside of an old shoe after he’s played a game or worked out, so there’s a lot of room left for various levels of disgusting in there.” I absorb the comfort of his presence like a salve to my worries.

He chuckles. “Those boys actually smell like used jock straps.”

I make a gagging sound and Jake releases me and takes a quick step back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. That was too far, wasn’t it?”

I laugh, in part because his expression is priceless, and he’s jumped back about four feet. “I guess I can’t really make that sound right now, can I?”

“You can, but I might take cover. Not very chivalrous of me, but there you go.”

“That seems fair. And I think I was better off not connecting that smell to that particular part of their uniform.”

“To be fair, the odor is a combination of a lot of things.” Jake purses his lips and closes his eyes. “And we’re going to stop talking about it, because it’s not an appealing topic.” His eyes pop open and he smiles almost shyly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you this week.”

“Seems reasonable since I’m carrying your baby and all.” We have yet to address what exactly we’re doing here, apart from having a baby together, and I know we’re going to need to talk that through, too. I’ve thought about it a lot this week, and while trying to be a couple could be good, it also has the potential to go very, very wrong. And I have no idea where Jake stands on any of that. Despite all the potential hurdles, I think I at least want to try to see where it goes. “And I’ve been thinking about you all week, too,” I confess.

“Because you’re carrying my baby?” His gaze moves over me in a slow sweep that I feel like a caress.

There’s some relief in knowing the attraction we share hasn’t disappeared in the wake of this new, unforeseen development. “That is definitely at the top of the list.”

“What’s at the bottom?” he teases.

Whether or not I should invite you to share my bed tonight or offer you the spare room.

When Jake and I first started talking more frequently, it revolved around King and Queenie’s engagement party. I kept sending him shared task lists so we could keep track of what needed to be done. For a while, every time he went to start a task, he’d find it had already been ticked off. He couldn’t understand how I managed to get to everything before he did, especially since I was doing it all remotely. After a while, he started at the bottom of the list and we’d meet in the middle.

“I should probably keep what’s at the bottom to myself,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Do you want a tour?”

“Nice deflection.” He smirks. “I think the bottom of both of our lists is probably the same based on how pink your cheeks are right now.”

I give him the side-eye and continue deflecting. “You don’t make lists.”

He sets his keys and sunglasses onto the side table and points to the bucket and the mop leaned up against it. “Were you cleaning before I got here?”

“I might have forgotten to put that away the other day.” It’s a small fib.

His left brow arches. “You don’t forget to put things away.”

He’s not wrong. Whenever I stayed at his place, I’d basically follow him around the kitchen, or whatever room we were in, and put things away. Even after sex sometimes I’d try to get out of bed and pick our clothes up off the floor. Often that would result in full body hugs from Jake to keep me from leaving the bed. Which isn’t something I should be thinking about, but the memories are already surfacing.

I clear my throat. “I’m pregnant, Jake. I forget my own name these days.”

He pokes at his lip with his tongue and stares at me until I have to look away. It’s a thing he does when he thinks he’s being bullshitted. Usually that look isn’t directed at me, and I find myself struggling not to fidget under his scrutiny. He reaches out and skims my cheek with his knuckle. “Based on your blush, I’m calling BS. Why are you mopping your floors? Shouldn’t you be taking it easy?”