Pete was by my side in an instant. He showered my cheeks, my eyes, my lips with tender kisses, and then wiped my stray tears away. “You are every bit as special.”
“Let me just check your cervix and ovaries,” Dr. Adams said quietly, surely used to such behavior. “Your cervix is a nice length.” Pete and I returned our attention to the monitor as the screen changed. “There we are. This is your left ovary. That’s where the egg was released.”
“It’s a leftie,” I muttered, jerking my quivering chin towards Pete. “Figures.”
Pete’s eyes misted, and I reached up and traced his wet lashes. “That’s my baby growin’ inside you. I’m gonna be a daddy.” An unhindered grin unfurled. “Consider my world officially rocked.”
After a gentle pat on my shoulder, followed by a pure male-bonding congratulatory moment with Pete, Dr. Adams left the room, his lab coat flowing behind him like Superman’s cape.
“Why aren’t you upset? In fact, why don’t you seem surprised at all?”
“Susie-Q, ya don’t grow up around a pile of women and not learn every detail about all things female. Anita was the worst of ’em all—breast feedin’ Taylor in Mamma’s livin’ room with half the family sittin’ there watchin’. Let’s just say, I could’ve taught sex ed. class myself.”
He laughed outright then, pressing his forehead against mine, said, “You’ve had all the signs. I just wasn’t payin’ attention.” He untied my hospital gown and cupped my breasts. “These are larger and more sensitive. And the throwin’ up and feelin’ just fine afterward…” He kissed the top of my head, nuzzled his nose in my hair, and then inhaled deeply. “And when ya came home from the doctor last week, lookin’ scared and confused and not wantin’ to talk about it…well, that’s when I knew.”
“What if I’d had cancer or something? What if—”
“You would’ve told me that. My mamma and your daddy both died of it. You wouldn’t’ve waited one second to tell me and ya know it.” A tendril of sadness threaded his soft smile. “Besides, you’re not allowed to die.”
♥
Once clothed and seated on the generous couch in his office, I scanned the certificates, artwork, and pictures of Dr. Adams’ family. Five kids? The dude took his profession seriously. Nodding at his diploma, I said, “Duke. I guess that’s okay.”
Pete squeezed my hand. “He’s ranked eighth in the state in obstetrics.”
“And you know this, how?”
Pulling out his phone, Pete tapped the screen. The American Society of Obstetrics website popped up, touting Dr. Adams’ virtues. He shook his head in mock reprimand. “You don’t think I’d trust just anybody to take care of my wife, do ya?”
All smiles, Dr. Adams entered the room and sat in the wingback chair nearest us. Crossing his legs, he began what sounded like a well-practiced spiel. “Many women feel agitated and emotional as their pregnancy journey continues.”
“Then I think you’ve been pregnant since the day we met,” Pete interjected with a snort. Dr. Adams whipped out an impressively scolding look before continuing, and I decided right then that I liked him.
“Susan, your body’s going through drastic changes, and you may feel uncertain about what’s considered normal, especially in terms of your emotional well-being. It’s important to discuss your feelings with a close friend, your partner,” he said, glancing at Pete, “or me for reassurance.” He then ticked off a series of directives, tips, and suggestions, ending with one last “congratulations”.
Pete and I left the birthing center hand-in-hand. “You’re not goin’ back to work, are ya?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
I felt an overwhelming need to rush back to the office and beat Mona silly with my briefcase for casting that baby curse on me. She’d definitely been dabbling in the black arts. “Why, what did you have in mind?”
“I’d just really love to wrap my arms around you and hold ya for a little while.”
After such an interminable stretch of guilt, anxiety, and unbidden waves of terror that he’d freak out and leave me, the thought was delicious. “I’ll race you home.”
“Oh no. No more racin’ for you.”
34
Quarterlies from Hell
It was perhaps the worst flight of my life. Though we had no turbulence, the seat beside me was blessedly vacant, and my morning sickness had waned, I was miserable for a different reason: I was starting to show.
The taxi dropped me at Saks, and I accosted the first salesperson I found. “I need a new suit. STAT!”
Considering how many meals I’d hurled back up, you’d think I’d be skeletal by now, but no. Evidently, every molecule in the lower atmosphere had decided to attach itself to my body. After going up two friggin’ sizes, I found something that was acceptable: all black and as slimming a cut as possible. In the shoe section, I nearly wept. My legs—my perfectly sculpted legs—looked thick even in rock star heels.
The hotel room mirror showed me things I did not want to see. My cheeks were fuller—no, they were fat! And though Pete and Mona insisted my skin actually glowed, all I saw was chipmunk. I touched up my make-up and repositioned the bright scarf designed to further distract the onlooker. Resigned, I headed for the INTech Plaza.
Squirming and burdened with the constant need to pee, I was trapped in an overfilled conference room with several hundred of my nearest and dearest…and Kirsten. So certain everyone would question my condition based on garb alone, I considered slapping a giant scarlet P on my blouse to kick off the scandal in style. By the time I stepped on stage to deliver my presentation, I was sweating terribly, the inadequate air-conditioning making matters worse. I hid behind the podium as best I could, and once finished, hustled back to my seat, hugging a folder to my chest.
As with all Quarterlies, there was food everywhere you turned—thank heaven above! Normally, I steered clear of pastries and the high caloric nonsense, but today I all but elbowed my way to the front of the line, prepared to devour the entire smorgasbord.
At the sound of a censorious hiss, I stopped mid-bite and glanced up at the man I’d once called lover.
“You used to be the hottest piece of real estate in this company. Now, look at you.” He unloaded a truly disgusted grimace. “Don’t they have gyms in South Carolina?”
I wiped brownie icing from my lips and said, “Bite me, Ryan.”
“I would, Baby, but…the cholesterol.”
“You like them milk-fed if I recall. Any new interns in your life?”
His eyes roamed over my cleavage and now almost D-cup breasts, and a carnal smile crossed his lips. “At least your tits look good.”
“Sexual harassment, Baby,” I sneered in retort.
A very attractive, waif-like creature sauntered by, giving him the kind of look that promised rude things behind locked office doors; I used to be her. I cringed as he openly compared us. Smirking, he shook his head once more. “God, what a waste.” Then he trotted along behind her like the dog he was.
I won’t lie; that hurt—more than I wanted to admit. Ryan’s opinion of people was based solely on looks, and it was quite possible that the only reason he’d hung onto me for so long was because of mine. And while the knowledge that I now repulsed him should have made me feel vindicated in some bizarre way, I just wanted to cry. I stared at the half-empty plate of carbs and calories with disdain and then crammed the remainder of the brownie in my mouth with a newfound appreciation for compulsive eating disorders. Its sugary goodness didn’t completely cure my depression, but the rush felt nice.
In the form of a savior, Grace Newman dropped into the chair beside me. She gave me the same once-over Ryan had, and then threw her arms around me and squealed. “When are you due?”
“Shh! December,” I whispered, horrified.
She looked at my plate knowingly. “Oh, I remember those days. They didn’t make enough food. How are you feeling?”
“Like a blimp.”
“Well, that part’s on
ly going to get worse, but it’ll be so worth it in the end.”
“I’m embarrassed to be seen. Everyone’s judging me.”
“So? Let them. Half the women here are snakes; the others wish they had your glow. You are glowing, you know. You have the beautiful aura of motherhood. Is your husband bursting with pride?”
I chuckled. “He thinks I’m carrying the Christ child.”
“Men are so like that.”
“And he keeps telling me I’m beautiful, but I know he’s lying.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a keeper. Believe him, Susan. Pregnancy agrees with you.”
Snorting, I fanned myself with my wilted napkin.
“Yeah, I remember that, too. Sometimes I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust—and that was winter. You must be dying.”
“I am. And living in the South isn’t helping matters.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that. How horrible. I hate to break it to you, but my hot flashes actually got worse after pregnancy. Maybe your next district will be cooler.”
“Oh, I’m not changing districts.”
“Susan, when you take maternity leave, they replace you. You know that. Remember how it was for me?”
It had been a train wreck. She was assigned a district far from her family, and then, through a strange chain of events—one that gave me superstar status—she was offered a district so close to home, she could easily commute. The thought of putting Pete and my future monster through that kind of nightmare made me shiver; North Carolina was home now.
“Grace, I’m not taking maternity leave.”
She laughed. “Of course you are. You’ll need time to bond with your baby, regain your strength, and embrace motherhood. It’s a very important time in your life. Plus, those last two weeks are killers.”
“I’m not required to take leave, right?”
She gave me a bizarre look. “Technically not, I suppose. But you’d be crazy not to.”
“I’ve got plenty of vacation saved up, and I can work from home some. It’ll be fine.”
Her eyes fizzing, she laid her hand on my arm and unloaded a knowing smirk. “Good luck with that, sweetie.”
♥
I didn’t stay for the mixer. I’d been away from Pete four nights, and an empty bed in a ritzy hotel was no substitute for a rock-hard body that hogged the sheets. As nausea retreated, my sexual drive advanced; I wanted Pete savagely.
I’d never been so happy to see signs for Atlantic Beach in my whole life. I raced across the bridge and squealed the tires as I accelerated onto Hwy 58, nearly blinded by the neon lights of Wings tourist shops—all three locations within a block of one another. By the time I passed mile marker three, I was nearly salivating. When I broke through the overgrown scrub, Yukon bushes, and line of attack mosquitos guarding our property like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, my headlights fell on Pete’s beautiful form. Leaving the car running, I flew into his arms.
“How was your trip, sweetheart?”
“Shh!” All business, I stuck my tongue in his mouth and slid my hand down the front of his cargo shorts, firmly rubbing my palm against his crotch. His expression’s direct translation: Please, God, let me not be dreaming. Dragging him up the stairs was like tugging on a feather.
“Lord, I want ya, Susie-Q,” he said through kisses. “Are you feelin’ up to it?”
I didn’t even bother answering. I just unzipped his pants and yanked them off his tight hips, underwear and all; his t-shirt landed on the lampshade.
He began a sweet seduction, but I stopped that shit cold in its tracks. “Sex now, foreplay later.”
35
WTF?
I had no idea what time it was, though considering we’d finally called it quits around four in the morning, I can promise it was quite late. I wandered onto the deck, alternately sipping freshly brewed coffee and the gently salted air.
My eyes immediately fell upon a breakfast feast. Wearing only bathing suit trunks and flip-flops as he scrubbed the white hood of his company jeep, his muscled back rippled and flexed under skin sweetly kissed by the sun. When he hopped off the tire and bent to squeeze the sponge in a sudsy bucket, I swallowed hard to keep from drooling.
At my rather poor attempt at a bawdy construction worker’s whistle, his head shot up.
“Mornin’, Susie-Q. You sure look fine.”
“I sure feel fine, if not a little sore.”
He cockily grinned up at me. “Sore, huh?”
“Very, happily, blissfully sore.” I bit my lip as scenes from last night replayed themselves in full Technicolor. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the truck with a satisfied stance. His shoulders barely crested the hood. And that’s when it hit me: either his jeep had overdosed on steroids, or that wasn’t his jeep. I leaned over the railing to get a better look.
“Whose car is that?”
He walked to the faucet and took an unnecessarily long time turning off the water. “Well…it’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Nice, huh?”
Anita and Memorial Day went together like Anita and the Fourth of July, or Anita and Labor Day. Honestly, if there was a national holiday to celebrate, she was all over it, and a trip to her riverfront house promised an epic party with much alcohol and a whole lot of boating. Plus, she liked ginormous cars, and this SUV was very ginormous. I couldn’t imagine a better time for her husband to surprise her with it than when she had a huge audience.
Hot pink was a lifestyle for her, but when it came to cars, red was the nearest thing. But as I thought about it, white would certainly show off her company’s new, nearly blinding, hot pink Graphics Shack car magnets. Kirk had thought of everything.
“Anita will love it,” I said, looking forward to being on the inside for once.
Pete stared at me for a moment with raised his brows. Then he said, far too suggestively, “I sure could use some lunch. I wonder if you’re too—”
“Sore?” I finished, smiling coyly.
Pete’s thunderous steps were followed by tender kisses to my neck and shoulder. His voice was deep and sexy as he spoke in my ear. “Ya know, we don’t need to be in any hurry to get to Anita’s.” He slowly unbuttoned the white dress shirt I’d found lying on the floor and cupped my breasts, clearly enjoying their ever-increasing girth. “I’m certain we won’t be missed for quite a while.” He pulled a nipple into his mouth, and I shuddered as sensations raced down my spine to the center of my sexual universe.
“Maybe we could go in a…little while,” I stammered breathlessly.
As the third orgasm ripped through my being, Pete’s breath exploded, his personal throbbing driving mine to infinity.
“I love you so much,” he said, kissing my ear before collapsing. Utterly replete, I sighed. I could never hear those words enough. For anyone to love me the way he did was a gift I’d never deserve, but I’d learned that grace was funny that way.
“I’m not squishing ya, am I?” he suddenly asked, quickly propping himself up on his elbows. He’d asked the same question at least four times last night.
“Not even close.”
“You’ll let me know, right?”
“I’ll let you know.” I wrapped my legs tightly around him, pulling him deeper within me.
Eventually, Pete rolled onto his side. As always, I felt a twinge of loss as our physical connection broke. I looked into his placid eyes, calm green lakes. He brushed my temple and cheek.
“I’m glad you’re startin’ to feel better.” His hand gently spread across my abdomen. I tried not to think of my figure’s continued degradation, of softness rapidly replacing hard-earned muscle. “I’d bear this for you if I could.”
I covered his hand with mine. “Will you promise to love me when I’m a blimp?”
He snorted, and then with serious eyes said, “Susan, I will always love you. Always.”
♥
Once showered and dressed, Pete carted our boating paraphernalia towar
ds Anita’s new toy. He touched some hidden button, and the hatch lifted soundlessly.
“I’ll race you to New Bern,” I said, opening my little Audi’s door.
“I thought you could drive this down.”
I’d never driven anything that big before. I’d be a sports car girl until the day I died, but I was always up for a challenge. “Sure, I’ll give it a try. But if I scratch it, you’re taking the blame.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t think so.”
I tossed my fob to Pete. “Treat Lucy with all the love and respect she deserves.” I had named my silver beauty in honor of Pete’s Southern eccentricity. He christened anything owning a motor—or even a motherboard, with some stupid female name. Our stainless refrigerator had as of yet been spared such indignities, but it was only a matter of time. Unlike Myrtle, his ill-favored pick-up truck, or Bessie, his rather attractive boat, at least the name Lucy was somewhat normal.
I stepped up on the Clydesdale’s running board. “This thing is like a tank.”
“By design,” he murmured.
I settled behind the wheel, feeling very much the munchkin, and searched for the seat adjust…and the mirror adjust…and the steering wheel lever…and all other manner of moving parts that would enable me to actually see out the windshield. As I fastened the seatbelt, Pete climbed into the passenger’s side.
“What are you doing?”
“Gettin’ in.”
“Why?”
“Would ya rather I walked?”
I snorted. “Maybe. Is there something wrong with my car?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then how are we planning to get home?”
He seemed to think on it for a moment, and then said, “Why, we can catch a ride back with Mona and Jimbo.”
Anita’s parties were renowned, and we tended to enjoy ourselves to the point of needing a spare mattress, couch, or plot of carpet on which to pass out. However, in my current state that would not be the case. “If you’re planning on drinking yourself into oblivion, you do have a designated driver, you know.” A really pissed off one who would simply like to have a beer on occasion. Seriously, was that so much to ask?
Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3) Page 24
