by Brill Harper
I nod, resigned to a bill from a locksmith I can ill afford.
Mac stands, and my gaze follows his rise all the way up. He’s tall and dense with hard-packed muscle. God. More granite than man, he’s robust and sturdy, nothing can knock him down. What is that like? Knowing you can just buffet whatever winds life throws at you by standing still. Since I got preggo, I’ve felt insecure. It was hard enough taking care of myself when I was alone, but now I’m supposed to shelter this tiny human inside me from everything scary and dangerous. Why didn’t God make mothers the ones with all the upper body strength instead of men? We need it more.
He pulls something out of his pocket and goes to my door, inserting a silver object into the handle.
“What are you doing? Are you...are you breaking into my apartment?”
He doesn’t turn, which is not a problem. The view of his backside is okay fine with me. His ass is a work of art encased in tight blue jeans. Perfectly proportioned tight, round spheres. “Yep.”
“I thought you said you were a cop? What kind of cop knows how to break into apartments?” And carries the tools to do it?
“The resourceful kind,” he answers, he looks over his shoulder with a wolfish grin. “I find it’s best to know what the perps can do and how they do it if I want to stop them. Also, as a cop, I have to tell you that your door isn’t very secure, and you need better locks. The kind not so easy to break.”
He jiggles the handle, and I hear a pop just before the door opens. My relief is short-lived. I still can’t get off the floor. And no, I do not want his help. My God. This is humiliating.
“You’re mentally trying to figure out which yoga position will get you off the ground, Hillary. I can see it.”
The blush is hot and fierce as it spreads from my scalp to my toes. The only thing worse than trying to stand in front of this hot guy is not standing up in time and wetting myself. I get to my hands and knees, but the hot ball of tears in my throat won’t go back down. Shit. I’m going to cry again.
“Hey,” his warm voice blankets me. He’s down on the floor at face level. “I’m going to help you get up, okay?”
“I can do it.” I totally can’t. There’s no way I can bend the laws of physics, but maybe I can just roll into my apartment. The baby crane-kicks me in the bladder. I wince but manage not to swear. I’ve been working on it. I don’t want to swear at my kid when it comes out, so I try not to swear at it while it’s cooking either. But man. Sometimes Little Bloomer makes it difficult. That was some kick. “I can do it,” I repeat.
“Hillary, I’m a trained professional.”
“Yeah? Cops train for this? Where, the zoo? You guys work with the elephants and walruses?”
He makes this noise that’s a cross between a heavy sigh and an almost laugh. “Anyone ever tell you that you tend to exaggerate? I’m a big strong man, Hillary. I can handle this.”
I blow out a breath and allow him to help me up slowly. He really is a big strong man. He helps me find my center of gravity and Bloomer starts rolling under his hand. Mac stops all movement, and his eyes get big. “Was that the baby?”
“Yeah, he or she is really active today.” The baby rolls again. “You ever felt a baby kick before?”
Mac shakes his head. I have to say he looks a little pale. I move his hand an inch and place mine over it, waiting for another movement. When it happens, Mac’s face transforms into the smile of a kid who just saw a bike under the Christmas tree.
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah,” I answer with a laugh. “It’s pretty crazy, right?”
He puts his other huge paw on my stomach and waits for another one. It’s like watching for the dice to stop rolling at a roulette table. We’re hushed, expectant. Bam! He laughs. It’s hearty and rich, and my heart flips in tandem with my baby at the sound of it.
“That is amazing.” He ushers me into my own apartment, one hand still on my belly. “Does it hurt?”
“Not usually. Sometimes. The first time Bloomer moved, I thought I had some kind of small rodent trapped in my shirt. I totally freaked out.”
Mac closes the door behind us and puts my purse on the couch. “I’m going to take some pictures of your door so I know what kind of hardware we need to shore it up.”
“Mac, I can’t afford—”
“The landlord owes me a favor. I’ll make sure he covers the cost.”
I don’t believe that for a minute. The landlord doesn’t fix shit in this building, but I’m not going to argue on a full bladder.
I already have to face a virgin birth, I’m not going to add “also peed her pants in front of her neighbor” to my headstone.
Mac
WHILE HILLARY IS IN the bathroom, I figure the smartest move I can make is start some water boiling for her macaroni. I get out a blue box of Kraft and eye it suspiciously. Better make it two. She was pretty intense out in the hall.
I don’t know much about pregnant women, though I did have training for emergency deliveries, but I do understand that you can’t be pregnant and a virgin at the same time. I’m hoping maybe it’s just that her blood sugar dropped too low and she doesn’t really believe she’s like Mary, the mother of God. I made the choice not to question her when she was stuck on the floor, and I think it was the right one, but fuck if I’m not curious. Maybe I heard her wrong. There was a lot of information to parse out of all that rambling.
I think I’ve taken care of the most pressing issues: she’s off the floor, in her apartment, relieving her bladder, and going to eat macaroni soon.
Her apartment is warm and welcoming. Plants hanging from hooks, a patchwork quilt folded over the back of a chair, pillows on the floor and on the couch. My apartment is the mirror image of hers, but a lot less cozy. Though my TV is better. Much better. That and a recliner are all I have in the living room. What else does a single guy need though?
Apparently single women need more seating, more color, more comfort, and less screen size.
She’s a reader. Books are stacked haphazardly on the coffee table and more fill the bookshelves against the wall. It looks like a mix of fiction and art books, but also plenty of books about pregnancy and babies. I scan for photos or evidence of a baby daddy, but the living room area and kitchen don’t offer me any more clues. It’s not my business, but I’m curious.
The water is boiling when I add the pasta and catch sight of movement across the room.
“You’re cooking for me?”
She’s fucking beautiful. She’s changed her clothes; the tight T-shirt stretches over her baby bump and emphasizes her abundant curves. Her pants are just pajama pants with cats on them, but something about her casual attire just slays me. Like I’m in some private inner sanctum where I get to see who she is when she’s not out in the world. Her face is freshly washed of tear tracks and her hair is down and frames her face.
“You feeling better?” I ask dumbly. I don’t know what else to say. The things that are bubbling up in my throat are words that don’t make sense or would be inappropriate to say.
Beautiful.
Goddess.
I want to make you come.
See? Inappropriate.
But there’s more. Things about staying, about commitment, about forever and never feeling like this before.
It’s all too much. My chest tightens, my ribs crushed by a boa constrictor of unrelieved feelings. Feelings I’ve never experienced before and have no right to now.
“Yes, I feel better. Thank you for the rescue.” I shouldn’t be turned on by the tiny waddle as she crosses the room. “You don’t have to cook for me. You’ve already helped me so much today.”
I grunt—a standard reply that I fall back on to keep people from getting too close. Nobody wants to get near a grumpy bastard, after all.
There’s a surprised wistfulness in her eyes, but she blinks it back. “You could be an ax murderer, but I’d let you stay if you made me mac-n-cheese. I probably shouldn’t tell that to a cop, but the
re you go. I’m not above aiding and abetting for cheap pasta and processed cheese.”
“Then sit.”
She eases onto the bar stool. “Just what kind of cop are you, Stryker?”
“ERU.”
Her mouth falls open. “Really? That’s...wow. That’s kind of crazy. I never knew an ERU officer before.”
“Not everyone knows what the ERU does.”
“Well, I don’t even know what the initials stand for, but I know you guys are the ones they call for the big stuff. At least I only ever hear ERU on the news when the shit hits the fan.”
“Emergency Response Unit. My specialty is...was...bomb tech.”
Her hand flies to her throat. “Oh my God, really? Damn. You must have nerves of steel.”
“Something like that.” Not anymore.
“Wow. All this time, I’ve lived next door to a hero.”
I think of the hard eyes I see in my reflection every morning. “I’m nobody’s hero.”
“Please. You’re making me food. That alone would guarantee you for a cape fitting in my world. But you save the city, too. They don’t call you guys in to direct traffic.”
I finish straining the pasta. “I’ve had to direct traffic before. It’s pretty dangerous, actually. Explosives are more predictable than human drivers.”
“You’ve obviously seen me drive then.”
Dammit, I like this woman. She’s stunningly gorgeous, but it’s hardly the most interesting thing about her. I grunt again. I don’t think she’s impressed by my surliness. It doesn’t seem to put her off. Maybe that’s because I’m cooking for her. I suppose grumpy bastards don’t usually make dinner for their neighbors.
“You said ‘was’ like past tense when you said you were a bomb tech. Does that have something to do with the hand brace you’re wearing?”
I stop stirring the milk into the pot and look at my right hand, my jaw clenching against the memory.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
Her stricken expression brings me back into the moment and out of the one I was trying not to fall into. “It’s fine. I just don’t like talking about it much.”
She doesn’t push me, and what might have become an uncomfortable silence seems less so now. Though she winces in her seat.
“Hillary, why don’t you sit on the couch? That stool doesn’t look very comfortable.”
“Nothing much is comfortable these days.”
“Don’t be stubborn. Go sit.”
“You’re kind of bossy, Stryker.”
I push back the thought of telling her what I really want her to do. How I really want to boss her around. How I’d like to tell her to take every inch of me in her mouth. I’m torn with dueling desires that seem like they can’t coexist in my head, but they do. I want to pull her hair and fuck her, and I also want to hold her hand and hand-feed her grapes. I want to treat her like a Madonna and also see my come leaking from the corner of her lips.
This woman.
I open a cabinet. Her dishes are every color of the rainbow and thick, sturdy pieces that are heavy and well made. My own plates at home match but are one step up from disposable. I bring her a bowl, a big one, of the orange pasta and before I know what I’m doing, I settle a blanket around her legs.
“Wow, you’re really good at this. Take care of many preggo ladies?”
“You’re my first.”
She takes a spoonful, a big one, and closes her eyes in the kind of ecstasy that I feel deep in my balls. Fuck. Look at her. If she enjoys sex as much as she enjoys her dinner, she’s one responsive woman. Now I’m thinking about how much I’d like to see that look on her face when I’m pumping deep inside her.
Change the subject, man. Fast. This woman is turning you inside out. My pulse is pounding in my dick like a motherfucker. She’s going to be somebody’s mother soon, you perv. Let it go.
You will darken her world when what she and her baby need is the sun.
But I can look out for her. Even grumpy bastards can do that much, right?
“When are you due, Hillary?”
“Seven weeks. Seven very long weeks. But then when I think about having a baby, I realize I’m not quite ready for that and seven weeks might not be long enough.”
Right. Seven weeks to prepare for a virgin birth.
Chapter Three
Hillary
MAC STRYKER IS THE hottest man I’ve ever seen in person and that was before he brought me food. He’s a god now.
Of course, that might be the stupid hormones. That is one thing they do talk about in the pregnancy books. I am basically hungry, tired, and horny at all times. Even while sleeping.
Is this cheese...product...supposed to taste this good? It’s basically salt and chemicals, I think. Creamy, rich, wonderful salt and chemicals. The last time someone brought me macaroni and cheese and covered me with a blanket, I was probably about eight. I think it tastes better when you don’t cook it for yourself.
I suppose it would be inappropriate to thank him by crawling onto his lap and rutting against him like the sex-starved lunatic I am. I understand that I am no prize right now. And it will probably be eighteen years until I have time to date once this kid pops out, and then I’ll be old and nobody will want me. I am basically never going to lose my virginity.
Well, the doctor broke my hymen to make my exams easier, but I hardly think that counts.
I moan a little around a forkful of food. Sorry, not sorry.
Mac eyes my baby bump suspiciously. “How long will you keep working?”
That’s a good question. “I hope to work right up until my water breaks, but I guess we’ll have to see how I do closer to term. I need to save as much money as I can so I can take time off after the baby comes. I don’t want to use up my savings before he or she gets here.”
“You don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet? I thought everyone was into those gender reveal parties now.”
My turn to cock an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, how many gender reveal parties have you been to, officer?”
“Technically, that’s Detective Stryker to you. And none. But I do have a Facebook account. And Pinterest.”
“Wait. You have a Pinterest account?”
“Yeah. Same reason I know how to pick a lock.”
“What does picking a lock have to do with Pinterest?”
His face is so tight, like maybe the furrowed ridges in his brow are permanent. “People are basically stupid. I can get a whole lot of information from social media about perps. Where they are, who they’re with, what they like. Dark Tumblr is a place I wouldn’t suggest you spend much time.”
For a grouch, he’s kind of funny. “Noted. Anyway, to answer your gender reveal party question, I want to be surprised.” Aside from Joe and the girls at work, nobody really cares what the gender of my baby is anyway. It’s not like my parents are going to put a sonogram picture on their fridge.
Mac rubs the skin above his hand brace, and his lips press tighter. “Mac, are you hurting right now? You didn’t injure yourself more on my account, did you?”
He blinks his surprise and then realizes where he’s touching. “No, it’s fine.”
I don’t want to pull information he doesn’t want to give, but I’m so curious.
“I’m off work for a while,” he says quietly. “Until the hand heals...” There’s more he’s not saying.
“I’m sorry.”
Oh, wherever he’s going in his head is a painful place. I think maybe the conversation is over when he surprises me by saying, “I missed one.”
“Missed one what?”
“Explosive. It went off at my last call. I got hit with debris and fucked up my hand. If it doesn’t heal, I can’t defuse bombs with it anymore.”
Wow. I can pour a decent cup of coffee, but this guy defuses bombs and makes pregnant women macaroni and cheese. He’s got to be a shoe-in for Heaven. But his frown lines deepen, and I realize he doesn’t think so. “You feel respons
ible. About the bomb going off.”
“It was my job to find them all. Stop them before anyone got hurt.” He leans against the back of the couch. “Christ. I’m supposed to be talking about this with my group, not unloading it all on you.”
I curl toward him more, moving into the space that separates us. “Baristas are like bartenders. I’m good at listening.”
“This isn’t me. I’m not a talker.” There is real pain in his eyes. It finally distracts me from my horniness and propels me right into nurturing mode. I put my hand on his cheek, the stubble scruffs my hand. I hardly know him. I shouldn’t be touching him like this.
Asking him to bare his soul to me.
“Hey,” I say anyway. “You shouldn’t feel responsible.”
“My best friend died that day. Because I missed one.”
“No. Mac. No. Your best friend died because a criminal rigged up a bomb. You can’t take all that on.”
His breathing is shallow. “Can’t I? Christ. Why am I telling you this?”
“Because we’re friends now.”
“Are we? I’ve never had a woman friend before.”
“I don’t think it’s that different. Do you?”
The way he looks at my belly, like he suspects it’s another bomb he might be responsible for, is kind of endearing and a little dorky. “I think it might be different. I think it just might be.”
Mac
One month later
“TELL ME WHY WE ARE watching this show again?” Tiny fucking houses. What is the point of that?
The show goes to commercial, and my only woman friend points the remote at the TV to turn it off. “Because it’s my turn to pick, and I am so tired of basketball. You’re like obsessed with it. I can deal with the constant bouncing, but my God, the squeaky shoes.”
I set my toolbox on the shelf and test the crib I just put together. It’s good and sturdy for Little Bloomer. I’m getting better at doing shit with my left hand these days. “Basketball is a great sport.”
