by J. Lynn
It was close to seven-thirty when I got off the phone with her, and I was currently eyeing the wealth of snack food in my pantry. I’d made a much needed trip to the grocery story after work on Monday, stocking up on foods that I discovered via a very confusing and somewhat overwhelming Web site for moms-to-be.
Eggs. Salmon. Veggies and fruits—colorful fruits and vegetables, because apparently there was a difference. No boring colored fruits for pregnant people! Sweet potatoes. Greek yogurt. And finally, lean meats.
I sort of liked the fatty meats, because, you know, I preferred things that had taste.
I’d also picked up a mammoth-sized prenatal vitamins and acid reflux medicine. Since it appeared there wasn’t a lot that was approved for expecting mothers, and the heartburn medicine was, I thought it might help with nausea. I wasn’t going to take it now, since the sickness was manageable, but it was good to have on hand.
Cheez-Its or Pringles? That was what I was debating when there was a knock on my door.
I turned around slowly as my heart did a cartwheel. A moment passed and then I approached the door. Even though some instinctual part of me knew who it was, I checked. It was Nick. Biting on my lip, I glanced down at myself and sighed. My sweats were at least two sizes too big and my cropped sweater was not something I’d ever wear in public. A decent part of my stomach was visible, and while there were no noticeable changes, I wished I had time to run back—
Well, wait. Why did I care what I looked like or what he thought? I was mad at him. And I could look worse. I could have a Cheez-It stuck to my chest or something. I opened the door, ready to demand to know why he was there.
Before I could open my mouth, Nick strolled right on in, like he had every right in the world to come in. A helmet was tucked under his arm and a worn leather jacket stretched over his broad chest.
“So you still have a motorcycle?” I blurted out, and man, wasn’t that a stupid question.
He placed the helmet on the kitchen table. “Yeah, I do.” His brows knitted. “I have a car and a motorcycle. It stopped raining, so I decided to ride the bike.”
“But isn’t it cold on the bike?”
One shoulder rose in a shrug. “You get used to it.” There was a pause as that light green gaze slid over my face. “I need to get you on the back of my bike and take you for a ride.”
A tight shiver tiptoed down my spine. Those words dripped with a heavier meaning. Folding my arms across my stomach, I looked away, my gaze landing on the helmet. “Why are you here, Nick?”
Silence greeted the question, forcing me to look at him. His gaze sharpened as he stared down at me, his jaw a hard line. When he spoke, his voice was clipped. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that question.”
I wanted to point out why I had, but the reasons weren’t very good. I could recognize that now.
“So I guess this is why you didn’t respond to my text Monday?” he said, his hands settling on his hips. “I’ve done something to piss you off. I don’t know what exactly, so would you be kind enough to let me in on whatever it is?”
The prickly irritation was back, but mostly directed at myself. What was really bothering me, what I didn’t have the nerve to point out, was what he had said at dinner Sunday night. That we were “stuck” together. There was the source of my frustration and . . . and yes, the dull ache in the center of my chest. But telling Nick that would be equivalent to stripping down and doing a little dance for him.
“I guess . . . I was upset over how long it took you to respond to my text Monday.” I squeezed my eyes shut, hating myself for even saying that out loud, because it was partly true. “I just thought you’d . . . um, respond quicker.”
When I opened my eyes, a look of doubt was etched into Nick’s expression, but so was . . . amusement. I pursed my lips. What in the world did he find funny about this? He shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Guess he was staying. “You’re right,” he said.
I glanced around the room. “I am?”
Nick stepped toward me, and I stilled, unsure of what he would do. He was so damn unpredictable, and he did surprise me by taking my hand. Threading his fingers through mine, he tugged me away from the entrance. My heart did an unsteady flop, because for a second I thought he was leading me back down the hall, toward the bed, and while my head said that was a bad, bad idea, my body practically exploded with a rush of hormones screaming hell yeah.
But that wasn’t where he was guiding me. He led me toward the couch and then sat, tugging me down so I was sitting right next to him, my thigh pressed against his, and since my head was happily splashing around in the gutter, the contact sent a wave of heat through me.
I needed to get a grip.
My gaze dropped from his beautiful eyes to an area below the belt.
I really needed to get a grip.
Or laid.
“What are you thinking right now?” Nick asked.
“Huh?” My gaze flew to his face. “Nothing.”
He turned his head slightly. “Yeah, I don’t believe you. Your face is suddenly flushed and your eyes are unfocused— Wait, are you feeling okay? Is it the—”
“I’m fine.” Not like I was going to tell him I was horny. I pulled my hand free and clamped them between my knees. “So . . . what was I right about?” Without looking at him, I knew his gaze was fastened on me, and it was that intensely unnerving gaze that made you feel like he was seeing right through you.
“You were right about the not-texting-back thing. I should’ve texted you back sooner.”
Surprised, I glanced at him sharply. “Are you for real?”
He ignored that question. “But you also should’ve had the balls to call me out on it immediately. We could’ve dealt with it then instead of you stewing for two days over it and me having to ask Roxy yesterday if you were dead.”
“What?” I leaned away from him. “You asked Roxy if I was dead?”
A completely unrepentant look settled into his features. “Well, I didn’t say those exact words, but I saw her at the bar this afternoon when I swung by and asked if she’d heard from you. My point is, you should’ve had the balls to call me out on it.”
“I don’t have balls,” I said snidely. The crazy thing was, in any other situation I would’ve called his ass out on it immediately. I wouldn’t have stewed over it.
One side of his lips quirked up. “Then you should’ve had the fertilized eggs to call me out immediately.”
I jerked. A laugh roared out of me. “Fertilized eggs?”
His grin spread. “That’s the next best thing to balls.”
“Oh my God.” I smacked my hands over my face as I laughed. “That just sounds all kinds of wrong, Nick. So wrong.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It does sound weird.” He chuckled as I lowered my hands.
Warmth crept into my cheeks and I squirmed uncomfortably. “You’re right,” I said. “I should’ve said something or asked, or at least I should’ve responded. It was childish, and normally I’m not like that. I guess I’m . . .”
“Stressed?” he supplied gently, nudging my leg with his.
I nodded. “Yeah, I am, but that really isn’t an excuse. It’s not—”
“There was a reason why I didn’t get back in touch with you until later, on Monday night. I take care of my grandfather.” That statement jarred me. Nick was looking straight ahead, all the earlier humor vanished from his striking profile.
“What?” I whispered.
His throat worked before he spoke. “My grandfather—his name is Job.” His full lips twitched into a brief grin. “I know that’s a weird name. My family is Romani. You probably know us by the other term. Gypsy. Though most of us don’t like that term. At all.”
Wow, my guess that he had a Hispanic background was way off targ
et. He was an actual Romani? For some bizarre reason, I was absolutely fascinated by this, probably because I’d never knowingly met one. There were some Romani who lived near Martinsburg, according to one of those reality shows on TV, but I’d never seen them. However, this really wasn’t the time for me to ask a hundred questions about his heritage and come across sounding completely ignorant.
“And before you ask, my family has been settled in this area for years. I went to public school and I didn’t grow up in a caravan of RVs,” he continued, his dark brows knitting. “I know there are a lot of stereotypes about our culture, but most of them aren’t true or they’ve been completely romanticized.”
Now I felt entirely stupid for thinking what I did, but I never thought less of Gypsies—er, Romani—or anything like that. “I’m part Cuban,” I told him.”
He looked at me, his brows raised.
“Well, my grandfather grew up in Cuba. He made it to the U.S. when he was a teenager,” I told him, shrugging a shoulder. “Anyway, just thought I’d . . . throw that out there.”
The smile that formed on his lips was small, but genuine. “Good to know.” He paused. “My grandfather has been very ill, and there’s no one . . . left nearby to take care of him, so I do. I live with him so someone can be with him during most of the day. There’s an in-home care nurse who stays with him in the evenings to give me a break and also when I’m at work.”
I was floored as I listened to Nick. I didn’t have a clue about any of this, but something Reece had said the night I’d been at his place came back to me. It was his response to Nick saying that he had a lot of time on his hands. Reece had called bullshit on that, and now I knew why.
“He has Alzheimer’s,” Nick explained.
Oh no. My heart squeezed with pained sympathy.
“It’s been pretty severe this last year or so, but it hasn’t always been that way. There were weeks when no one would even know anything was wrong. You know? He’d just have moments of confusion. Like he’d sometimes repeat something he’d said about an hour earlier and then he would show up with his shirt buttoned incorrectly—little things. And then it changed, but that’s the way the disease is. It progresses, and he has these episodes when I need to be there for him. He gets pretty stressed when he doesn’t recognize the nurse. Hell, most of the time he doesn’t recognize me.”
I closed my eyes.
“But he’s usually comfortable around me. Maybe it’s something inherent in him that knows I’m blood. The docs don’t think that’s the case, but whatever.” Nick let out a tired breath. “But when he’s stressed, it takes a lot to calm him down. Sometimes he can get . . . violent. He doesn’t mean to. I think he’s just so confused and afraid. Anyway, he’ll throw things, and while the nurse is patient and understanding, I don’t feel right leaving her to deal with it. And Monday, I’d left my phone in my car, and I honestly didn’t even think about it until that night, and by then . . .”
He’d been too stressed out to really worry about my text. God, I wanted to bitch-slap myself across the face, and the only reason I didn’t was because of the feeling of pride rushing through me. Nick was . . . wow, he really was the puzzle I couldn’t figure out. Whatever conception I had of him was sorely off base. Taking care of his ailing grandfather was something a lot of people wouldn’t do. Being a caregiver, even when you had professional help, wasn’t a walk in the park. At times I knew it could be as stressful as being stricken with the disease. The fact that at twenty-six, and for how many years, Nick had been taking care of his grandfather, blew my mind.
Changed the way I viewed him.
I was proud of Nick.
Reaching over, I placed my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”
His gaze dropped to where my hand rested. “I didn’t tell you so that you’d pity me.”
“I know.” I swallowed against the sudden knot in my throat. “I don’t pity you. I just feel bad that you and your grandfather have to go through this. I don’t have any personal experience with it, but I know how hard Alzheimer’s can be. I’m . . . I’m proud of you.”
Nick’s surprised gaze flew to my face. He didn’t speak.
“A lot of people would’ve placed him in a facility. You didn’t.”
“It might get to that point,” he said, voice low.
I squeezed his arm. “And if it does, it won’t be because you didn’t care enough for him. I think you know that.”
His gaze collided and held mine. “Yeah.”
Something occurred to me. “Is that why you bartend? You mentioned having a degree, but is it because bartending allows you to virtually pick your own hours?”
“Partly.” Nick leaned back against the couch, causing my hand to slide to his. I left it there.
“Is he doing better now?” I asked.
Nick nodded. “For now.”
Pressing my lips together, I drew my hand back. “I am sorry you have to go through this.”
He didn’t respond right away. “How are you feeling? Still nauseous?”
The change of subject was understandable. “It hasn’t been too bad. I learned that I could take antacid meds if it gets too bad and it might help. All and all, I feel kind of normal.” I scrunched my nose. “Well, I might be a wee bit more emotional than normal.”
Nick grinned. “Nah.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Nice hair.” His hand snaked out and tugged on the edge of one of my braids.
I smacked his hand away and grumbled, “Whatever.”
“It’s cute.” His gaze was bright and soft. “You’re like Pippi Longstocking.”
I squinted. “How in the hell do you know about Pippi Longstocking? That’s from, like, decades ago.”
“I know things. Important things.” He smiled. “Besides, you’re like the grown-up, sexy version of Pippi Longstocking.”
My brows rose. “Oh. Wow.”
“But I like the sweater better,” he added, his gaze dropping.
“I think you like the fact you can see some skin better,” I corrected.
“You got me there.” Sucking his lower lip between his teeth, he sat forward. “Can I do something?”
I arched a brow. “Uh, sure?”
Nick twisted so he was facing me, and when his hand moved toward my stomach, I realized I probably should’ve asked him what he wanted to do before I gave him permission. A second later the palm of his hand landed on my stomach.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I straightened. My eyes widened. His hand was large, nearly covering the width of my stomach, and his palm was warm. I felt the touch all the way to my spine.
He leaned in, so close that I felt his breath against my cheek. “I know I can’t feel anything yet, but I just wanted to put my hand there.”
“Why?” I felt a little dizzy, like I’d been holding my breath.
“It makes me feel close to the baby.”
Oh gosh.
Oh man.
I dragged in a deep breath, but the warm and fuzzy feeling was spreading through me, and that wasn’t all. He wanted to be close to the baby. His hand moved slightly as his fingers brushed the band on my sweats.
“It’s right in there,” he continued. “A part of you. A part of me. No matter how any of this came about, it’s pretty amazing.”
My ovaries might’ve just exploded.
His lashes lifted. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I whispered and then I said it louder, “Yes.”
Nick’s lips brushed the curve of my cheek, and I shivered once and then twice. When did he get so close? My breath hitched as my heart thumped in my chest. If I turned my head an inch or two to the left, his mouth would be on mine. Anticipation swelled, and snapping at its heels was confusion. Why did I want him to kiss me? Okay. There were several reasons why I’d like him to kiss m
e. Lots and lots of reasons, but what was his reason?
His palm was still pressed against my stomach and those lips were somewhere in the vicinity of my jaw, and I remembered his almost kiss. The one that had caught the corner of my lips the very first night. Suddenly, kissing him was all I could think of. What would his lips feel like against mine? Would they be hard or soft? With him, probably a little bit of both. If he kissed like he fucked, it would be the kind of kiss that forever changed the way you viewed kisses from the past and the future.
Nick’s head dropped a little and the stubble along his jaw dragged across my chin. I swallowed a gasp as heat flashed throughout me. His palm slid off my stomach, spreading flames as he wrapped his hand around my hip. He pressed his forehead against my shoulder and that warm breath tickled my neck.
This sound came from him, a purely primitive masculine sound that did crazy things to my nerves. My heart pounded as he lifted his head slightly, and then I felt his lips against the sensitive spot just above my pulse. Muscles low in my belly coiled tight. Kiss me. Really kiss me. Kiss me. Those words were on repeat as he continued to lift his head.
Nick drew back, and he didn’t kiss me, but when I laid eyes on him, I knew his mind was where mine was. His chest rose and fell heavily and his gaze was heavily hooded. Glancing down, there was no hiding the bulge in his jeans.
Holy hell . . .
“So, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, and his voice was deep, rough.
“I had no plans.” I wet my lips. “Are you going to Reece’s?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t come over to see him. I came to see you.”
That . . . that pleased me. “I was just going to watch a movie and eat some Cheez-Its. Okay. A lot of Cheez-Its. Maybe some Pringles, too.”
The lopsided grin appeared on his lips. It was infectious, and I felt myself grinning back at him. “Well, why don’t you pick out a movie and tell me where the Cheez-Its and the Pringles are. We’ll watch a movie.”
