by Robin Huber
“Well, it was part of it, but there’s more.” He looks through the trees and points to the glowing lights in the distance. “That’s where we’re going.”
I give him a curious look, but he doesn’t offer any more clues, until we arrive at Tavern on the Green, where we’re promptly greeted and escorted to a private table outside under a ceiling of twinkle lights.
I squeeze his hand across the table and whisper quietly, “Now this is romantic.”
* * *
Sam traces his fingers over my arm, waking me from a light sleep.
I roll over and look at him lying beside me in the early morning light that’s pouring into our suite. “Hi.”
“Good morning.”
“Why are you always up so early?”
He laughs softly. “We have a flight to catch.”
I groan and roll over and clutch my pillow. “But this bed is so comfortable.”
He reaches around me and rubs my stomach, and I love the feeling of him holding me, holding us, close to him. He drapes his heavy arm over mine and reaches for my hand. “You have to get up,” he says, rolling me onto my back.
“But I’m so tired. I’m pregnant. I need sleep.”
He puts his mouth on my neck and groans softly. “I know a way to get you up.” He pushes my shirt up and rubs his hands over my round stomach, and the baby kicks hard. He leans over and says, “Good morning to you too.” He kisses the spot gently and then works his way up to my breasts, pushing my shirt off them and massaging them in his hands.
I close my eyes and run my fingers through his thick hair, moaning softly.
“I see you’re awake now.” He sits up and grins.
I grab his hand and pull him back to me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“We have a flight to catch.” He laughs.
I sit up and tug my shirt off over my head and climb onto his lap. “Don’t we have just a few minutes?” I rub my hands over his round shoulders and down his chest. He smiles, but he doesn’t move, so I put my mouth by his ear and kiss the sensitive skin beneath his earlobe. “Please?” I take his hand and put it on my breast. “Pretty please?”
He squeezes it softly and grumbles, “How can I say no?” He looks at me with eager eyes and a big, bright smile that makes me giggle. “You asked for it,” he says, laying me back against the bed and making me squeal at the quickness with which he kisses me. He tugs my bottom lip between his teeth and sits up, pushing the covers out of the way and tossing the pillows off the bed. He yanks his pajama pants off and kneels next to me naked, and the sunlight shines on his painted body.
“Stop,” I say, sitting up to appreciate the work of art before me. He freezes and I watch his chest rise and fall. I reach for his hand and turn it over and look at the new tattoo on his forearm. “I still can’t believe you had my face tattooed on your arm,” I say, rubbing my thumb across it and appreciating the work of his tattoo artist.
“It’s not just any face. It’s the most beautiful face in the entire world.” He brings his lips to mine again. “One I plan on seeing every day for the rest of my life.”
I smile softly and say, “I like that plan.”
“Since we’re in agreement,” he mumbles against my lips, “where were we?” He kisses me deeply, massaging my tongue with his until my fingers are digging into his arms. He lays me back against the bed and drags my panties down my legs, kissing my thighs and tummy as he makes his way back to my mouth.
He kisses me for another long second, before he falls back on his heels and kneels between my legs. He wraps his wide hands around my thighs and pulls my bottom onto his lap, leaving my back on the bed as he carefully pushes into me, leaning forward slightly until his sculpted stomach is pressed against my tummy. He lets out a small groan and then reaches under the small of my back to support me as he begins to move. He slowly rocks in and out of me, and I grip the sheets in my fisted hands, moaning softly at the heavy, full sensation that travels all the way down to my toes.
I look up at his scruffy face, full of intensity, and watch the muscles in his torso flex each time he moves, accentuating the V that points to the source of pleasure between my legs, sending flames racing to every single part of my body each time he falls back on his heels, stroking me in just the right spot. I close my eyes and feel Sam’s hand move over my swollen breasts. He rubs them softly, then he leans over me and drops his mouth to my sensitive nipples, taking turns with them as he pushes deeper inside me, and I feel myself beginning to unravel.
I hold my breath as the flames blissfully incinerate every fiber in my body, then I gasp for a breath that resonates through me and fans the smoldering embers, half aware that Sam has wrapped his arms around my back. He holds me up off the bed a little as he moves, squeezing me and groaning as he pushes into me one last time.
After a few silent moments, he lifts his head from beside mine and pants, “We’re going to be late for our flight.”
I give him a satiated smile and exhale a labored breath. “It’s not my fault that you don’t have any willpower.”
“Only when it comes to you.” He kisses me softly and climbs off me. “Tristan will kill me if I’m not back in time to train this afternoon.”
I drop my worried eyes and nod.
“Hey,” he says, lifting my chin. “It won’t be like last time. I promise.”
I push down thoughts of Las Vegas and try to convince myself that he’s right. It’s his last fight. And he has Tristan this time. I swallow down my worry and say, “Okay.”
Chapter 21
Lucy
Well, that’s all of them,” Bas says, wiping his hands together as the movers carry what’s left of my paintings to a waiting truck outside my studio. “Your paintings are on their way to a dark, desolate storage unit.” He puts his hands on his hips and sighs.
“Well, I hoped that my home studio would be ready by now, but the contractor said two more weeks for the renovations.” I swivel from side to side in the chair behind the front desk. “I’m just happy Sam and I got everything unpacked so we can start getting ready for the baby.”
He raises his eyebrows and smirks. “That’s got to be some kind of record for you. It’s only been, what…a month and a half since you and Sam moved in?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “I think I’m nesting now or something.”
“Speaking of which, did you and Sam pick out furniture for the nursery yet?”
“Actually, we’re going to later today.”
“What about Lionheart? Did you hang it yet? I’m dying to see how the painting looks on the wall in Sam’s gym.”
“Not without you. I need you there to supervise.”
“Probably best,” he says seriously. He opens his calendar on his phone and asks, “So how long should I plan I keeping the rest of your paintings in storage?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three months?”
He presses is lips together and gives me a disapproving look.
“I promise that after the baby’s born, we’ll find a new gallery and they’ll see the light of day again.”
“And what am I supposed to do until then?”
“Hello.” I get up and walk around the desk. “Find us a new gallery. And try to sell the rest of my paintings to help pay for it.” I laugh and his eyes light up.
“You’d really trust me to do that? Find a new location, I mean.”
“I’d only trust you to do that. I actually think it would be the perfect assignment for you while I’m on maternity leave. In addition to coordinating everything for the remaining five exhibits I agreed to participate in before I knew I was going to have a baby.”
“You know, it’s not required that you attend them all in person to participate. Your name alone should get the paintings a lot of attention now that you have Molly branding you and splashing your artwork on T-shirts across America.”
“It’s kind of full circle isn’t it? Molly was the reason people started talking about me when Sam a
nd I got back together, after our run-in on the elevator. And she’s the reason people are talking about me now.”
“Except now they’re talking about your talent, not Sam.”
I give him a dubious look.
“Okay, they’re talking about your talent and Sam. But mostly your talent.”
“Well, soon they’ll have something else to talk about,” I say, putting my hands on either side of my belly. “Honestly, I may never leave my house again after she’s born.”
He gives me a worried look.
“I’m serious, Sebastian. I don’t want anyone taking pictures of my baby.”
“Well, you’ll have to come out of hiding eventually if you plan to attend any of the exhibits. But you can leave the baby safely at home.”
The thought of leaving my baby, who isn’t even here yet, fills me with unexpected anxiety. I rub my stomach and say, “I think maybe you’re right—we should pick the top three and only attend those. And by top three I mean whichever ones are the furthest out on the calendar.”
“Don’t worry about the exhibits, Luc. I’ll get everything lined up while you’re maternity leave, just like you said.”
I nod and let go of the unnecessary worry.
“How long do you think that will be exactly?”
“I don’t know. How long does it take to return to one’s previous state after pushing a tiny human out of their body?”
He gives me a pained look. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to have to do that in a few weeks.”
I chew the corner of my mouth. “Me neither.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. Women have done it since the beginning of time, and you have something they didn’t. An epidural.”
“I don’t want an epidural.” I ignore the way he’s looking at me. “I’m not worried about how much it’s going to hurt, Bas. I’m worried about Sam seeing everything.”
He narrows his eyes and nods slowly. “Okay, well, have you mentioned this irrational concern to Sam?”
“It’s not irrational. And, no.”
“Why not?”
“What am I supposed to say? Hey, Sam, I’m really worried that after I push the baby out, you’ll never be able to look at my vagina the same way.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, you probably shouldn’t lead with that.”
I drop my chin and say seriously, “I don’t think I want him to see it.”
“You don’t want him to see the birth of his child?” He gives me an incredulous look.
“Not really.”
“Okay, now you’re being irrational. You can’t really mean that.”
“Yes, I do! Look at me, Sebastian,” I whine, putting my hands on either side of my giant belly, which has consumed the middle part of my body. “I look like an alien.” I scrunch up my face and ask, “Do you even know what happens during the delivery? It’s humiliating.”
He pulls his dark eyebrows together and says, “Unfortunately, yes. Paul and I watched a birth video when we were researching surrogacy. Which we immediately regretted,” he says quietly. “Some things you can’t unsee.”
I pull my hands to my face and groan loudly.
“Oh, come on, it’s the miracle of giving birth,” he says, pulling my hands away.
“That’s what people say to make women feel better about losing their dignity.”
He laughs and pulls me into a hug. “Lucy, Sam loves you. Just like all the men around the world who’ve watched their wives give birth. He’s not going to care.”
“I’m not his wife.”
“Yet. And that’s not the point. The point is, he loves you.”
“But it’s Sam. I’d rather you watch than him.”
He shakes his head and releases me. “Well, that won’t be happening.”
I open my mouth and shove his arm.
“What?” He laughs. “I love you, but that’s Sam’s department.”
I groan. “Maybe he won’t want to watch either.”
“Lucy, you are crazy if you think Sam isn’t going to want to see his daughter come into this world.”
I close my eyes because I know he’s right. “He just better stay up by my head.”
“I don’t think you’re going to care where he is, as long as he’s there to hold your hand during contractions. And if I know you, which I do, he’s the only one you’re going to want doing that.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Of course I am.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to the middle of the empty studio. “So…” He glances around the open space. “Are you ready to say goodbye?”
I look at the bare walls, remembering everything it took to get here and all the hard work that went into my exhibit. Most of the memories involve Drew in some way, which only adds to the distance between them. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet I can still remember the feeling of walking inside for the first time—trepidation mixed with pride and determination.
“So strange,” I muse.
“What?”
“How different everything is now. How different I am. How much my life has changed since opening this studio.” I look at him and smile. “I didn’t even know you yet.”
“That is strange.”
“I thought I’d be sad about letting it go, especially today, but I’m not. I actually feel really…hopeful.”
“Hopeful?” He smiles.
“Yeah. I mean, if anything, this last year has taught me that life is full of surprises. You just never know what’s around the next corner.”
“Like maybe…a fabulous two-story loft gallery that rivals Aurelia Snow’s?”
I laugh and drop my chin. “Maybe.”
He smiles and takes my hands in his. “To hope.”
I swallow down the emotion that moves through me, not because I’m sad, but because I’m overcome with gratitude and faith. The future used to be this giant question mark. And in many ways it still is. But one thing is certain now. A future with Sam. “To hope.”
* * *
I sit on the paper that’s covering the examination table in my doctor’s office with an equally uncomfortable paper blanket draped over my naked lap, kicking my slightly swollen feet together.
Sam smiles up at me from the chair he’s sitting in. “I’m going miss these appointments after the baby’s born.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why?”
“It’s kind of fun watching you squirm around on the table and get paper stuck to your butt.”
I narrow my eyes. “Funny.”
“Very, actually.” He stands up and walks over to me with a grin. “You sure you’re going to be okay while I’m gone?”
“Hmm…” I look up to one side. “Will I still be pregnant when you return?” I look at him and nod. “Most likely. Will I be okay watching you fight Carey Valentine from eight hundred miles away?” I shake my head and look down at my bare feet. “Probably not.”
He stands between my knees at the end of the examination table and puts his hands on my thighs. “I’m ready this time, Luc. It won’t be like the Crawford fight.” He lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “I promise.”
There’s a knock on the door. “How’s my favorite patient?” Dr. Fletcher asks, walking into the room with a smile. He pauses when he sees us. “Everything okay?”
Sam reaches out to shake his hand. “Just giving Lucy a little reassurance about my match tomorrow night.”
“Ahh, that’s right.”
“Now, I just need you to give me a little reassurance about the baby. Still three weeks, right?”
“Well, let’s take a look and see. Lucy, why don’t you go ahead and lie back?”
I’d rather no one be poking around my lady parts, but I’ve come to realize it’s a necessary part of having a baby. And I’ve also come to love Dr. Fletcher. He has five children of his own and the patience to prove it. He always takes his time with me and never makes me feel like I have absolu
tely no idea what I’m doing. Which I don’t.
“How have you been feeling, Lucy? Any contractions?”
“Just Braxton Hicks,” I say, trying to get comfortable on the crinkly paper that covers the padded table. “Same as the past few months.” I pull my shirt up over my stomach, which is now the size of a beach ball, and Sam reaches for my hand.
Dr. Fletcher puts his hands on either side of my stomach and pushes gently, but it feels like he’s rearranging my organs. “She’s head down now,” he says, pressing down hard.
“That’s good, right?”
“Very good. Breech babies don’t come out very easy,” he says.
“Breech. What’s that?” Sam asks.
“Bottom first. That’s not what we want. But not to worry, your baby’s bottom is right here,” he says, pushing on the top of my stomach again. “Feel right here,” he says to Sam.
Sam puts his hand on my stomach and pushes his fingers against the spot. “That’s it? That’s her bottom?” he asks fascinated, and I smile. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Sam use the word bottom before.
“Yep.” Dr. Fletcher reaches for Sam’s wrist. “Push a little harder,” he says, pulling his fingers down the side of my stomach. “Feel her back?”
“Yeah.”
“And that?” He pushes Sam’s hand against my lower stomach. “That’s her head.”
“Wow,” Sam says. “That’s incredible.”
Dr. Fletcher grins. “Cool, huh?”
“She’s so big now,” Sam says, smiling at me.
“I’d say she’s about six pounds,” Dr. Fletcher says, pulling out his measuring tape. He stretches it from my pubic bone all the way up to my breastbone. “Right on track for thirty-seven weeks.”
Sam squeezes my hand and I smile at him, until Dr. Fletcher raises the dreaded stirrups and locks them into place. “Okay, let’s see what’s going on inside and then—since you are my favorite patient—I’ll do an ultrasound just to be sure,” he says, redeeming himself.
“Okay.” I scoot my bottom down toward the edge of the table and prop my feet up in the stirrups. “Sam,” I say, tugging him back a little.
He stands by my shoulder and waits patiently for the verdict.
