by Nina Lane
“Dean, I was talking to Allie earlier about maybe helping her out with a loan for the bookstore.” The words escape me in a rush. Until now, I haven’t realized how much I want Dean’s support for this idea.
“How much does she need?”
“I don’t know yet. But I mean, not a loan from you. I was thinking about applying for a business loan and… uh, maybe partnering with her.”
“Oh.”
“Oh good, or oh bad?”
“Good, but investing in a troubled business is no easy task.”
“I know.” I don’t, actually, but I want to learn.
“You can’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.” Irritation prickles at me. “I don’t intend to put myself or the pregnancy at any risk.”
“I’ll give you the—”
“Dean, if I needed the money from you, I would ask. But I want to do this by myself.”
“Liv, to get a business loan, you need to have collateral and a—”
“Dean, please.” My stomach is getting twisted up again, the way it used to when I first met him and allowed myself to dwell on the differences between us. “I’m not training for a marathon. I’m just going to try and help out a friend. I really want to do this.”
He turns onto Ruby Street. “Okay, but you don’t even need to ask if you want to use our money.”
“I know.” And I do.
He parks the car by the curb, then puts his hand on the small of my back as we navigate patches of ice on the sidewalk. I can feel the warmth of his touch even through my coat—his gesture of I’m right here that I have always loved.
“You’re late.” Kelsey March glowers at us from the front porch of Matilda’s Teapot, where she is hunched into her coat. Her blue-streaked blond hair shines in the overhead light, and her face—devoid of makeup aside from bright red lipstick—is pinched with cold.
“Why aren’t you waiting inside then?” Dean asks.
Her glower deepens, and I subject her to an effusive embrace. “You look great. How’s your mom?”
“Fine. She sent you some blinchki.” She thrusts a Tupperware container at me and jerks her head toward the door. “I’m starving. Dean, you’re paying.”
“For you, anything.” He gives her one of his patented Dean West smiles, which would make any other woman melt.
On Kelsey, however, it has all the impact of a feather against stone. She rolls her eyes at me and strides into the tearoom, which is in an old, converted Victorian house. Chintz tablecloths and curtains dominate the interior, the clientele consists mostly of elderly ladies, and the tea and sandwiches are served on china plates and cups.
“So, what’s going on with you two?” Kelsey flips open the parchment menu and studies me and Dean through her rimless glasses. “Everything okay?”
Kelsey knows a lot of what happened between me and Dean, and she was the one I stayed with when we were apart. She doesn’t, however, know everything.
“We’re good,” Dean says.
Kelsey gives me a look. “Liv?”
“We’re good,” I agree.
It’s too early to tell anyone about the pregnancy, even Kelsey. At least Dean and I have talked about it, and we’re both doing what we’re supposed to do. He makes me a cup of horrible no-caffeine coffee in the morning and puts my prenatal vitamins on my plate. I walk on the treadmill at the gym, have scheduled my next two checkups, and when I’m not feeling nauseous, I eat lots of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.
I try not to dwell on my fear that I don’t know how to be a mother. For most of my life, I didn’t even want to be a mother.
“So then she made this huge iced bread, which is called a krendel, and she knows I love it except that I eat it like a freaking cow, so she made me deliver it to the neighbors but only because their son is newly single after…”
Kelsey, thank God, is rambling about her own mother. I love Kelsey’s mother. She is a plump, cheerful woman who epitomizes one of my dream mothers.
I’ve had a lot of dream mothers. The sharp-tongued feminist, the happy homemaker, the driven career woman, the nurturing earth goddess. They’ve flitted in and out of my mind since I was a child. Now that I’m pregnant, they’ve appeared with new strength as I try to imagine what kind of mother I’m going to be.
Well, I know one thing about being a mother, at least. I know I don’t want to be the kind of mother my own mother was.
Kelsey goes on and on about her Christmas while we eat. Well, Kelsey and Dean eat. I’m feeling a little queasy, so I just pick at a slice of quiche.
“Not hungry?” Kelsey glances at my plate.
“Uh, not really. Hey, did Dean tell you about his IHR grant?”
“What?” Kelsey is properly awestruck by this news and peppers him with questions and congratulations.
“You going to campus tomorrow?” Kelsey asks Dean as we get ready to leave. “Up for a few games of racquetball?”
“Not tomorrow.” Dean fishes for his wallet. “Prepping for a seminar.”
“Did I tell you my department scheduled me for three seminars?” Kelsey drains the last of her tea. “And I have a new grad student starting this semester. You know what that means.”
Dean pushes back from the table so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the hardwood floor. He grabs my coat and holds it out for me. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” I throw him an odd look as I shrug into the coat. “Don’t forget to use the gift certificate. What’s the hurry?”
“No hurry.” He heads off to take care of the bill as Kelsey and I gather our satchels.
“Hey, really.” Kelsey gets all serious for a second and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “You guys okay?”
I watch my husband as he makes his way to the front counter, his dark hair and black peacoat a striking contrast to the yellow chintz and lace décor.
“Yes,” I tell Kelsey. “We’ll be fine.”
A cloud cover has made the evening gloomier than usual, and Dean makes sure Kelsey gets back safely to her car before he and I head to Avalon Street. When we get home, he settles on the sofa to watch the news. I busy myself watering my houseplants and straightening the living room.
I stack a pile of Dean’s sports magazines on the coffee table and pick up the newspaper. I didn’t read it this morning, so I look over a few of the articles, then turn to the Help Wanted section.
I skim the ads. Energy consultant. Systems administrator. Early childhood educator.
Nothing I’m qualified for or have experience in, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now that we’re going to have a baby.
I sit at my narrow desk and take a notebook and a pen from the drawer. I stare out the window for a few minutes, watching reddish clouds sweep over the snow-frosted mountains.
Then I write:
I look at the list for a minute, then add:
I reread the list, then close the book and write on the cover:
After slipping the book back into my desk, I power up my laptop and type “small business loans” into a search engine.
I study websites about different organizations, loan programs, application types. I write down the contact information for our local bank’s loan office and start to fill out the online application. Less than a quarter of the way through, there are boxes for details about credit reports, taxes, collateral, accounts, a business plan. I turn to ask Dean for help, then stop.
There’s no information requested on the application that I can’t find myself or get from Allie—I just need to research and figure it out. I email Allie asking her about the business plan, then I save the application to finish later and log off the site. Even though I have a lot of work to do, it feels like a good start.
Dean is working in his office by the time I get ready for bed. I fall into a comfortable sleep with the pleasant knowledge that he’ll soon slide under the covers beside me.
The sun is already streaming through the window when I wake the next morning. I’m tucked
against Dean’s long body, my leg across his. We have a king-sized bed, so usually we end up apart from each other on either side of the mattress, but sometime during the night I’ve scooted across and draped myself over him.
That’s happened often since we reconciled. It doesn’t take a genius to explain why I now have a tendency to latch on to my husband during the night.
I push my hair away from my eyes and look up at him. He’s awake, one arm trapped beneath my shoulder and the other resting on his stomach.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi.” I shift. “Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry… crap.” He winces as he pulls his arm out from underneath me.
“Pins and needles?” I massage his arm with quick strokes. “Seems to be the only part of you that’s asleep.”
I glance at his impressive erection, which is tenting the sheet.
“Considering the way you were rubbing up against me,” he says, “that shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I was sleeping. How could I have been rubbing up against you?”
“Very seductively. I thought you were having a sex dream.”
I feel my face heat up. No need to tell him my dreams have been getting somewhat erotic lately.
Since I know quite well he’ll see the blush, I shove away from him and sidle out the other side of the bed. He’s still watching me as I head to the bathroom. I shoot him a glower.
“Quit it,” I say.
“If you’re still turned on, I can help you with that.” He looks pointedly at his cock.
“I am not still turned on.” I’m getting turned on, but don’t see the need to tell him that either. At least, not now with him starting to look smug.
He wraps his hand around his erection and starts to stroke himself—the sight of which he knows very well makes me hot in two seconds flat. Still I manage to resist him, just to make a point, and go into the bathroom.
In the shower, I have to bring myself to a quick, strong orgasm to take the edge off, because yes, I did have a sexy dream even if I can’t remember the details. After the vibrations ebb, I feel silly for masturbating when I’ve got Dean hard and ready just on the other side of the door.
Must be pregnancy hormones making me irrational, because otherwise I’d be out there bouncing up and down on him like he’s a carnival ride.
When I step out of the shower, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror. I turn sideways and squint, wondering if my belly is getting rounder and my breasts are getting bigger or if I’m just imagining it.
I do a quick calculation in my head. Almost nine weeks. In another three weeks, I’ll already be in my second trimester.
Can’t wrap my brain around that.
I put my robe on and open the door. Dean has already finished himself off and is lying there with his eyes closed, looking relaxed and sleepy.
“You done?” I lean a shoulder against the doorjamb.
“I’ll be ready to go again in a few, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe later.”
He opens his eyes to look at me. “Playing hard to get, pretty lady.”
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble without me.”
“I had a lot of trouble without you.”
A twinge tightens my heart. I push away from the doorjamb and go to stroke my fingers through his messy hair.
“You won’t be without me again,” I promise.
He grasps my wrist and presses a kiss against my palm before climbing off the bed. After he goes into the bathroom, I stretch out on his side of the bed. The sheets are warm from his body heat. I rest a hand on my stomach and try to imagine what it will feel like when the baby starts to move.
Dean comes out of the bathroom and crawls onto the bed beside me, lowering his head for a lovely, minty kiss before flopping onto his back. I shift to one elbow and run my hand over his chest.
“You know, I was thinking…” I begin.
“Uh oh,” he mutters.
I pinch his arm. “I was thinking about us. That we should do something really romantic to prove our commitment again. Like take a hot-air balloon ride or enroll in ballroom dancing lessons.”
“Can’t we just rent a cabin for a week and screw like rabbits?”
I roll my eyes, though the idea is not without appeal. “I mean, in addition to that.”
“Oh.”
“We could renew our vows, but I think that’s a little clichéd.”
“Mmm.”
“Maybe we could get matching tattoos,” I suggest.
“Of what? A ball and chain?”
“Dean!” I smack him with a pillow.
He laughs and pushes the pillow aside, then grabs my ass and hauls me on top of him.
“Give me a kiss, beauty.”
“No way,” I huff, even though the sensation of his lean, muscular body beneath mine is getting me all tingly again. “You’re mocking a meaningful declaration of our love. Why should I kiss you?”
“Because I make you hot.”
Damn. He slides his hands underneath my robe and rubs my ass in circles, the heat of his palms burning through my cotton panties. It takes a superhuman effort to give him a quick peck on the lips and move off the bed.
“Hey.” He frowns at me.
“Try a little harder next time, professor.” I head for the closet. “Besides, it’s almost time for work, and I need to change.”
“You don’t need to change. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I toss him a smile over my shoulder, unsurprised to find him looking pleased with himself for that remark. Warm inside, I dress in a skirt and blouse, then rummage around for a pair of shoes. Dean’s cell phone rings. He groans, but reaches to pick it up.
“Dean West.” After a pause, he pushes up to one elbow. “Paige?”
The sudden tension radiating from him arcs into me. The only Paige I know of is his younger sister, but she still lives out in California and they rarely speak anymore.
“Yeah… what?” Dean swings his legs to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. “When?”
I hurry to sit beside him, suddenly alarmed. I press my hand to his back.
“Okay… hold on.” He grabs a pen from his nightstand and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Thanks for calling. Be there as soon as I can.”
He puts the phone down and curses, his shoulders rigid.
“Dean?”
“Shit, Liv.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I have to go to California. My father had a heart attack.”
“You’re staying here,” Dean orders.
He’s spent the last hour making phone calls to his sister and mother while trying to book a flight to California. He paces the bedroom like a caged tiger.
“You’re pregnant, for God’s sake,” he says.
“I know that.” I fold a blue skirt and put it in my suitcase. “But Dr. Nolan said it’s perfectly safe to travel. And if you think I’m letting you go to California alone, you’re wrong.”
“Dammit, Liv, I have to stay at my parents’ house, and you know what a—”
“Dean, I can handle it.”
“I don’t want you to!” He stops in the middle of the room to glare at me, his fists clenching at his sides. “Why do you think I’ve gone to California alone since we got married? So you won’t have to deal with my fucked-up family.”
My chest constricts. It’s true that I haven’t protested before. He’s visited his family alone because he wanted to protect me, just like he does now, and I was happy to let him. For a long time, it felt good to let Dean shield me whenever he could and soothe me on the rare occasions when he couldn’t.
Except now, our lives have changed so much. I’ve changed. So has he, even if he doesn’t quite know it yet. There’s still a long path ahead of us, and I need to start on it by not being afraid.
“Dean, when things happen, we need to deal with them together.”
“When things happen with us, yeah.” His f
eatures tighten. “Not with my family.”
“Your family is part of you.” I put a pair of jeans in my suitcase. “It’s about time I accept that too.”
“Do you even remember what happened the last time you saw them?”
Oh, I remember.
I straighten to look at him. “You can’t protect me from everything. Least of all our marriage.”
I smother the urge to remind him that his need to protect me is what made him lie about his previous marriage. And then that became one of the things that broke us apart.
The phone rings. Dean swears and grabs the receiver. “Yeah, Paige.”
He stalks from the bedroom, his voice a tense rumble as he speaks to his sister again. I hurry to finish packing my things, then take some of Dean’s shirts from the closet and start to fold them.
“All the flights for the day are booked, so I’m going to have to fly standby,” he says into the phone as he returns to the bedroom. “Otherwise earliest is tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know. Call me if anything changes.”
He tosses the phone onto the bed. Tension stiffens his jaw.
I pause in the motion of putting his jeans into his suitcase. “What?”
“She says Archer is coming back.”
My stomach twists sharply at the mention of his younger brother. “Is he there yet?”
“He’s driving up from LA.” Bitterness cuts his voice. “Supposed to get in soon.”
“Any news about your father?”
“Same as before. Stable but critical. They expect he’ll need surgery.”
He rubs his face. Lines of exhaustion already bracket his mouth and eyes, and we haven’t even booked a flight yet.
I approach him and put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat races against my palm. I can sense all the emotions boiling inside him—the fear of failure, the guilt that he has spent his life battling.
“Dean, please don’t fight me on this.” After all we’ve been through in recent months, I have a lot to prove to both him and myself. “If it were the other way around, would you let me go alone?”
