She chews and licks her bottom lip and as much as I keep fighting with my common sense, the craving for her is beginning to push away the logic.
I know she’s talking, but I can’t make out the words over the blood that’s pumping hard and fast. So, I shake my head, control myself, and say, “What was that?”
Her brow lifts, and damn. Can she stop playing with her lips and her teeth? I swear one of these days I’m going to slam my mouth against hers and she won’t be able to blame anyone but herself for being so sexy.
“When did you stop listening?” she asks suspiciously.
Right about the moment I wanted to be the one fidgeting with your lips.
“You mentioned something about an appointment.”
“Yes, I need to go to the doctor,” she says, and I almost high five myself because it was a great guess. “It’s in my top ten things to do soon. The at-home test said yes…well, the seven I used. Mom confirmed I am, but what if it’s a false positive?”
“Is this denial or just wanting an official yes from a doctor?”
“The second,” she confirms. “It’s just a technicality. I really want them to say, here, you’re expecting a baby, and you’ll be popping this beautiful pumpkin out of your vagina around April twelfth, and it’s in perfect health. Because if you recall, I drank wine while I was in New York. What if something happened to her?”
“Do you want me to get my assistant to schedule you an appointment?” I ask. “She’s researching the nutritionist by the way. I should have more information Monday. Maybe I should ask her to just make you an appointment with both.”
She asks, confused, “Here in Seattle?”
“We have doctors here, too,” I tease her.
“Well, yeah, but I have to…” She trails her voice and her gaze toward the coffee table where her phone and the book she was reading earlier sit. “On second thought, I’m not sure when I’m going back to Denver. I might as well do this here, next week. I should get that positive sooner rather than later.”
I want to throw a fist to the air and celebrate the news.
Trying to sound neutral and not in the least excited, I ask, “What made you decide to stay with us longer?”
She grins. “Mom. She called asking me too many questions all at once, and Brock and I decided it’d be best if we remain with you for a little longer.”
“Sweetheart, let’s make sure you remember this. Brock is mine. If you want to hang out with the kid, you have to stay. You’re not taking him with you,” I warn her with a light voice. “You can just move in with me. I could use another roommate. As you can see, I have plenty of room for you too.”
Her throaty laugh makes me shiver with desire. That sound is just like everything about her, arousing. “Your place is gorgeous, but too far from home. I can’t imagine living in another state.”
I want to tell her that you get used to it. When Ford realized that he couldn’t live in New York, he moved to Miami first. A year later he jumped to Chicago. Then there was London for a year…or was it first to London and then Chicago? I can remember every place he lived because we own a house there, but not the length or the order. The only thing I clearly remember is that we had to learn to live apart.
She’s going through too many changes, and it’s not the time to tell her that maybe she should try living somewhere else. My place might be the wrong choice. What am I supposed to do with her?
I rub my temples as the images of her on top, under, or beside me while I’m making love to her appear in my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? This is what happens when I don’t sleep enough. We need to leave the house before I do or say something stupid.
“Do you feel like going out to dinner?” I ask.
“Where would you be taking me?”
“I can get us a reservation almost everywhere,” I assure her. “We’ve yet to celebrate the little blueberry, or should we call her Helios?”
“Stop calling my baby weird names.”
“Sorry. Your parents started it.”
“I accept your dinner invitation. Let’s just hope my stomach behaves while we’re out.”
Twenty-Five
Nyx
Eating out at a fancy restaurant is overrated. I talk myself into believing that the hype of going to a five-star restaurant is so last century.
Really. There’s nothing better than dining on the veranda with a view of Lake Washington, enjoying Nate’s company, and devouring the most delicious French onion soup I’ve ever tried in my life—that he prepared—and realizing that it will take me months to find a new normal.
Until I can get this nausea under control, I think eating out is off the menu. Earlier, when we entered one of the finest steakhouses in Seattle, I got nauseous. I’m not sure if it was the scent of the food, the place, or the people wearing all kinds of perfume.
Who would’ve guessed that my life would shift so much in such a short time? Just a couple of weeks ago, I was worried about drowning and feeling lonely. Tonight…well, here I am, having dinner with a guy I swore would be a distant memory, and in a different state where I’m planning on staying for at least a couple of more weeks—when I can start searching for a new house.
Do I miss my family?
Mom’s making sure that I don’t miss her at all. She keeps texting me and calling me. I love her dearly, but she’s hovering more than usual.
“I have to ask,” I say.
“Not really, but hit me with your next question,” he responds. “They’re highly entertaining at times. I like inquisitive women.”
I narrow my gaze, trying to understand his statement, but I choose to disregard it and ask, “How often do you throw a romantic candlelight dinner for your dates?”
He rolls his eyes and almost laughs. “Never. You and Ford are the only guests I’ve ever had in this house. What makes you think I’ve done this before?”
“It’s perfect,” I explain. “The twinkle lights webbed over the roof, the view, the meal…even the company.”
His gaze moves around between the lake, the setting, and then me before saying, “This is the first time I have had such lovely company. The lights were here when I bought this house. Well, I had them replaced with new ones, but the setting was already a part of the place.”
He skips the food, but we’ve already discussed that he’s a great cook, so I have to ask, “How long have you lived here?”
“Four, almost five years,” he answers.
I’m tempted to ask him more, like what made him move to the suburbs instead of buying a place in the city. “Why…” I trail my gaze toward the city lights.
“We used to own a place downtown,” he answers. “Ford wasn’t visiting often because it was too close to the offices. I decided to move to a quieter neighborhood that would contrast my life in New York.”
“Which one do you like best?”
“I like living in Manhattan, with moderation,” he answers. “It’s one of the few cities where you can get food delivered at any time of the day—or night. It has everything. It’s diverse, and you can get lost too. From all the world cities, I think that’s my favorite.”
Looking across the lake, I can see why he’d choose this house. It has a fantastic view, the commute is short enough to travel to Seattle every day, and the silence is relaxing. But, is it this place or us that gives me peace?
There’s an intimacy we share when we don’t say words that calms me. Maybe that’s the biggest reason why I am here.
Being at home, trying to organize my thoughts, my future, and my present felt so lonely. Nate makes everything bearable even when all I’m doing is pondering about what’s coming up next and running scenarios to decide what’s the best way to go.
With him, I feel as if I’m not alone trying to survive. Before yesterday, I felt like it might be easier to sink than breathe and stay afloat.
He’s not pulling me out of the water. He’s handing me a float that I can hold onto until I know where I’
m heading. That’s what I decide to focus on for the foreseeable future: Nate, the friend.
I refuse to acknowledge the way his touch makes my skin tingle. It’s not easy to ignore his smoky-gravel voice as heat spreads along my body. He’s too alluring to ignore. His charm can be spellbinding if one isn’t careful, but I am. I keep telling myself that if I can get past this attraction, we could be the best of friends.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I offer, wondering why he’s been less chatty than usual.
“Why do people offer their two cents when they are about to speak but just a penny when they want someone else’s thoughts?”
I chuckle and grab some of the freshly baked bread we bought on our way back from the city.
“Probably because when you offer your two cents, it’s advice, a critique, or life-changing. While in my case, I have no idea what you’re thinking and it might not be worth my time?”
“Way to kick my pride,” he jokes and winks at me. “Stop wounding my ego, woman.”
“Just keeping you grounded. I don’t want to inflate your ego so much that you won’t fit in the house,” I tease him.
“My ego grows with touch, not with words.” He smirks widely. “Let me know when you’d like me to demonstrate.”
“Well, now I have to ask,” I say, diverting the conversation to a safer subject because I’m not discussing his length, girth, or stamina. Not when I’m having trouble not picturing him naked. “If my memory serves me correctly, I recall you propositioning me the night we met.”
“And the offer is still open, sweetheart,” he answers, crossing his arms as he watches me.
“Don’t you have, like, friends with benefits or…someone to go out with? I mean, it’s Friday, and you’re stuck with the pregnant lady who cramped your style in the middle of one of the best restaurants in the city.”
He’s about to speak when I add, “After all, you’re the famous Nathaniel Chadwick. Playboy, adrenaline junky, and businessman.”
“That’s not exactly how they describe me,” he corrects me and laughs when I roll my eyes. “Our outing was—I’d be lying if I say that you looked cute at the restaurant, but it wasn’t pretty. However, I enjoy your company more than I enjoy the company of many people. To answer your question, I was a serial dater before Bronwyn, and after her, I was sleeping my way through the world. I stopped because it gets fucking old and lonely.”
I scrunch my nose and agree with him, “It does get lonely. Not that I sleep around, but the couple of times a year that I managed to find a guy, it never lasted more than a night or a weekend. If you still love your ex, why don’t you…?”
I stop myself because I doubt suggesting going back to her is the way to go, but what is it that he needs to do to move on with his life?
He combs his hair with one hand and lets out some air before he speaks, “Why do I keep getting bombarded by things like questions, packages, or discussions that end up bringing up my past?” he asks, aggravated. “It’s not only your questions but also the memory of my old home in New York. I loved my house in Brooklyn. It was far enough from the city, but close enough too.”
It sounds like he had to move because she lived close by, and that’s shitty. “Did you sell it?”
“I didn’t have the heart to kick Bronwyn out of it,” he answers. “It’s still mine, and she’s probably living with that asshole and their kid—or kids if they had more. I pay taxes, the insurance, and… Today, Ford reminded me that I have yet to find some kind of closure from that relationship—and recover my house.”
I try not to scowl at him when I ask, “Like getting the house back?”
He glances at me and asks, “What would you do?”
“If I was in your place?” I take a piece of bread and munch on it while I think about the answer. “I think you refer to the betrayal, and I honestly don’t know if I’d forgive him—whoever this guy is. Now, her deception went further than just cheating, she passed a kid as yours and then said, ‘Oh well, he’s not yours so never mind, I’ll just snatch him away from you, and we’ll go our separate ways.’ It upsets me just to think about what she did to you. Since I’m not close to her, I can coldly say, let me hit her with a notice of eviction to recover your place.”
He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head. “It’s not just the place. She’s been asking me for financial help. I doubt she can afford to pay for rent.”
This kind of talk helps me shake any feelings that I might be developing for him. Earlier I wondered if he really loved her and if they were really that couple. I lied to myself when I believed that maybe he was infatuated with her. But now…
Well, I can see that he is still in love with his ex and will never love anyone the way he loves her.
“Is Wyatt still registered as your child?”
“No, we took care of that almost immediately. I was deleted not only from his life but also his birth certificate.”
“But she’s still reaching out because she knows you love that kid as if he’s your own,” I mumble. “This might not be what you want to hear, but it’s time to let them go and move on. If you want, I can handle the eviction and give them plenty of time to find a new place. It’s not about you being heartless, but you need to heal, and the best way might be by cutting all ties to them.”
“Something about this reminds me of my mother, you know,” he says.
“What is it?”
He stares at the table, grabs his wine glass, and takes a sip. After a few beats, he says, “I’m doing this all wrong. As you mentioned, this looks like such a romantic dinner. I should be trying to woo you and get you in bed. Instead, I’m babbling shit that you must find irrelevant.”
I reach out and grab his hand. “Not at all. First of all, we know how we’ll be spending the night. With me having morning sickness and you assuring me that I look pretty even when I look like a demon possesses me.”
“A blueberry sized demon,” he jokes, caressing my hand’s back with his thumb.
“We’re becoming friends, and I’d like to help you in any capacity. It’s the least I can do, really, for all you’ve done for me. Even if it’s by being the bitch who draws the papers to remind Bronwyn that she made many bad choices and she should let you move on. Now, tell me about your mother,” I plead, squeezing his hand to give him a little courage. “How is it that one thing relates to the other?”
“Mom left us and created a new family,” he states.
“Did she just leave or did your parents get a divorce?”
He nods before replying, “After a couple of years of fighting like sworn enemies they divorced, and she left us.”
I want to ask if there was a custody fight or if he’s just assuming that she didn’t fight for them. Maybe his father had a better lawyer that left her without the right to have her children during the weekends. It happens. I’ve seen it many times. These parents never think about their children or the consequences.
“She has a new family. My brothers are twenty-eight and twenty-seven. I have a younger sister who is twenty-five,” he offers. “It’s obvious that, for her, it wasn’t because she didn’t want children. She just didn’t want us.”
I’m about to open my mouth when he waves his hand. “If Mom had wanted us, she’d have requested visitations. At least a holiday every other year. Since the moment she left, I never heard from her. Sometimes, I want to knock on her door and ask ‘What the fuck was so wrong with us that you had to get a new family?’”
“Which translates into what the fuck was wrong with you that Bronwyn got another man and had a child with him and not you?” I question as my heart squeezes because women have fucked with this guy a lot.
These two are the most significant players in his life, but what if there had been other women using him and never loving him.
No wonder he’s so jaded.
“Yes, that’s exactly it. There’s something wrong with me for thinking that, but I just can’t seem to let it go.”
“Well, you’re a catch. If you ever need references, send them my way.”
“Says the woman who keeps rejecting me,” he teases me.
“If we had met under different circumstances…” I shrug. “I’m pregnant and you have a lot of emotional gunk that you have to sort out before letting anyone in your life.”
“My brother would be killing me if I make a move because he’s afraid that I’ll fuck up his relationship with Persy.”
“I’m not in the practice of listening to others, so we’d be doing a lot more than holding my hair while I talk to the porcelain goddess in the bathrooms. And well, on the couch…the action would be different from just tucking me in when you find me asleep because it seems like I’m developing some kind of pregnancy-narcolepsy,” I say, but would I break the sister code for him?
No, I’m too loyal to my sister to mess with her relationship. Probably.
“Really, just the couch and the bathroom?” His voice has an energy that makes me want to say yes, and let’s just do it now. “We’d have gone through all the surfaces in this house and be heading to some tropical island where it’d be just you and me. Just say the word.”
My sensible side says, “No. We’re both in a bad place. I’m starting a new life, and you—”
“Do you think I need a therapist?” The change of pace feels like a whiplash.
One moment he’s telling me that we could have sex on any surface of the world, and the next we’re discussing…therapy?
“Talking to a professional about your unresolved feelings is always a good idea,” I answer, because having a sister who does that for a living has taught me many things, and I can respond to this better than discussing his tour le sex. “That said, you need to want to go. If not, it’s a waste of time for you and the therapist.”
“Do you have a therapist?”
“I do, and I speak to her every month. I have a lot of issues when it comes to my job. Mostly when I have to deal with family cases where I win because I’m good, however I shouldn’t have taken the case because I worked for the wrong parent.” I sigh, remembering all those cases I won because I’m a damn good lawyer. However, the child was placed with the wrong parent in my opinion. They make me sad. It’s hard to live with the guilt and harder to move onto the next case.
Didn't Expect You (Against All Odds Book 2) Page 16
