by Nina Lane
“Why else would you knock the other girls aside whenever I walked in?” Dean looks rather pleased with himself.
My mouth drops open. A flush scorches my cheeks. “I did not knock the—”
“You sure did. And you think I didn’t notice the chocolates or the extra cookie you’d put on my plate? Or the time you gave me a box of shortbread and told me it was a free sample?”
Now he looks downright smug. My face feels like it’s on fire. So much for trying to be subtle.
“Yeah, well, I… I mean… you know, keep the customer happy and all that,” I mumble.
“Oh, you kept this customer happy, all right.”
He’s grinning in earnest now, and I can’t help smiling. He reaches for my waist and pulls me so that I tumble on top of him. He pushes his hands into my hair, stroking it away from my face as he presses his lips to mine.
Then there’s lovely kissing that makes my pulse pound. Every time Dean kisses me, every time he looks at me, I’m reminded of how right I’d been in allowing him past my defenses. In deciding that he was the one to whom I could open myself. In knowing that he wouldn’t flinch.
I press my hand to his erection beneath his pajama pants and rub against him. A mutual, unspoken agreement descends between us, as he eases me to the side and slides his hand between my thighs.
I spread my legs apart to give him access, squirming when he runs his forefinger along the edge of my panties, slipping beneath them just far enough to tease.
“Don’t you want to know why I wanted you?” I ask breathlessly, losing focus for an instant as he trails his fingers lower.
“I already know.” He moves his lips down to my throat, licking the hollow where my pulse is throbbing.
“You do not.”
“Uh huh.” He strokes his thumb up my cleft. “The professor thing got you all hot and bothered.”
He’s not far off, so I don’t bother to argue. I gasp and sink back against the pillows when he thumbs my clit and slides his mouth down to my breasts beneath my nightgown.
“And your suit.” I fumble to slip his pants lower so I can touch his exposed cock. It springs warm and hard into my hand. “I thought you looked… amazing in your suit. And then at the lecture, when you started talking about… oh, God… when you were standing there… with that… I was… what were you talking about again?”
“Monastic architecture and sarcophagi.” He tugs lightly at my nipple with his teeth. Sparks fly through me. I tighten my hand on his shaft and begin to stroke. “Also monastic scribes.”
I spread my legs wider. Part of me wants him to yank my panties off me, but I like the feeling of the damp cotton against my folds. Plus his fingers are doing such delicious things down there that I don’t want him to pause for anything else.
“Did they have sex?” I pull back a little to look at him, faintly curious beneath my arousal. “The monastic scribes?”
“Some of them said sex was the root of… fuck, Liv, tighter… of other sins.”
I swirl the pad of my thumb over the head of his cock. “But they had sex even though they were monks?”
“Probably. Some of them were certainly obsessed with it.”
“Oh, that sounds wick… wicked.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Then his lips cover mine and we’re kissing hot and deep. He slides his finger over the outside of my panties, rubbing the fabric into my cleft, and I moan against his mouth and wiggle my hips around to try and make him stroke deeper.
I move my hand up and down his cock, and then the urgency builds higher and we both start groaning and thrusting toward each other harder and faster. Our legs get tangled together, and I rub my breasts against his chest to ease the aching tingle in my nipples. Our tongues slide together, two of his fingers slip inside me, and then one flick of his thumb and I gasp his name and clamp my shuddering thighs around his hand.
I stroke him faster as his body quakes with his own release, and it’s all pulsing vibrations and heat and salty sweat. And somewhere in the midst of the slick pleasure, I wonder when everything became so comfortable with Dean, when I’d lost my inhibitions and discovered that being sexy could be so breathtaking, so satisfying. So easy.
Maybe there hadn’t been a moment of discovery at all. Maybe, with Dean, it had just always been like this.
On Tuesday, almost a week after we first arrived in California, I decide to venture out by myself while Dean visits his father. Since the Wests have several cars, Dean returned our rental a few days ago. After he gives me the keys to his father’s car, I head downtown.
Los Gatos is a vibrant place filled with cafés, boutiques, restaurants, and shops. It reminds me a little of Avalon Street, except without the lake breeze. People are eating early lunches and having coffee at outdoor seating areas. Brightly colored awnings line the sidewalks.
It’s cool enough to wear a light jacket, and I spend some time poking around a few gift shops, art galleries, and furniture stores. I stop for a decaf cappuccino at a coffee-and-chocolate shop, then buy a bag of chocolate-covered almonds for Dean and a box of assorted chocolates for his mother.
Might as well try to keep things sweet.
I browse a few more shops, entering a women’s clothing store that looks as if it has stylish but casual clothes.
“May I help you, ma’am?” A saleswoman with helmet hair approaches me.
“Just looking, thanks.”
I glance over the racks of business suits and silk blouses, the blazers, and pencil-slim skirts. It would be silly to buy anything in my regular size since I’ve already gained weight. Not to mention I have no reason to wear career clothes.
I pull a somewhat voluminous shirt from a rack, then realize I’ve made my way to the maternity section at the back of the store.
“I have a chart, if you need help with sizing.” The saleswoman pauses beside me again, her gaze flickering to my midriff.
“Oh, I probably won’t need maternity clothes for a few weeks yet.”
“We have a number of styles that will work throughout your pregnancy.” She takes several pairs of pants from the rack and shows me the different adjustable waistbands and front panels. “And for blouses, use whatever size you are now to determine your maternity clothes size. Let me get the chart, and we can do some measurements.”
Next thing I know, she’s wrapping a measuring tape around my hips and bust, then consulting her chart. I decide to roll with it—I like the elegance and simplicity of the clothes, and I don’t mind buying a few things to keep on hand. By the time we’re done, I have two pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans, three blouses, and a heather-gray skirt.
I pay for the purchases and loop the bag over my arm before heading outside again. As I pass a restaurant, the smell of pizza fills the air. My stomach growls. I pause to study the menu taped in the restaurant window when two women walk out. Paige and Joanna West emerge, Paige holding the door open as Joanna fishes around in her purse.
“Oh. Hello, Olivia.” She slips her sunglasses on. “We didn’t know you were planning to come downtown.”
“Dean was going to the hospital, and I thought he’d want a chance to visit his father alone.” I feel exactly the way I did all those times I’d enter a classroom as the “new girl”—nervously wanting to please, and yet not knowing how my overtures would be received.
“You bought some things at Eclipse?” Paige glances at the name on my bag. “Let’s have a look.”
Well, hell. That’s all I need. The tags on the clothes say Maternity, the jeans have elastic stretch panels in the front, the skirt has an expandable waistline…
I make a show of looking at my watch. “Actually, I need to head back. I think Dean should be home soon, and we were going to… um, do something.”
Neither woman’s expression changes. I give them a wave and hurry in the opposite direction, aware that they’re probably going to talk about me now. Not that they haven’t before.
When I return to the
West house, I go upstairs to unpack my things. I wonder if Joanna and Paige are having coffee or doing some shopping.
I can’t remember if I was ever that way with my mother. Mostly I remember being angry with her for dragging me from place to place or just not talking to her at all.
“You don’t even know how good you have it, Liv,” she told me once when we were on the road to yet another town.
I was in the passenger seat of our old Chevrolet, tucked close to the door to avoid a scratchy ridge of foam that had burst through the vinyl seat. I shoved my hand into a bag of potato chips. I’d eaten half the bag already and was feeling sick, but I kept eating because it gave me something to do with my hands and made it more difficult to talk.
My mother glanced at me from the driver’s seat. It was over ninety degrees out, and we’d rolled all the windows down. Hot air rushed into the car. Her wheat-blond hair whipped around her head and neck. She was wearing a yellow tank top and capri pants, her bare feet tan and dusty.
“Most girls your age would love such freedom.” She pulled her sunglasses off her head and slipped them over her eyes. “How many of them have seen as much as you have, done as much? None, I’ll tell you that. They’re too busy painting their nails.”
I spread out a hand and looked at my nails. Ragged and bitten to the quick.
“So cut out the attitude and be grateful,” my mother added. “And stop eating chips. You’re getting fat.”
I crumpled up the bag and wiped my greasy fingers on my shorts. I scratched a mosquito bite on my leg. I stared out the open window. I’d long ago devised a game of looking at passing cars and making up stories about the people inside.
The older couple driving a Cadillac had been married sixty years and were taking a trip to the beach together. The young, long-haired guy in the hatchback was on his way to meet his girlfriend after they’d gone to separate colleges. The four girls in the VW were taking a road trip to Manhattan for the first time.
I wondered what people thought of when they saw me and my mother.
Crystal. She’d told me to call her that when I was eight. Didn’t think it was a good idea if people immediately knew we were mother and daughter.
“Get out the map, Liv.” She nodded toward the glove compartment. “We’re looking for I-77. You remember Nadine from the grocery store? She’s got a brother who lives in Cleveland. Runs an auto-parts store or something. Nadine said to pay him a visit if we happened to be in town.”
“We don’t happen to be in Cleveland,” I muttered. “We’re going there on purpose.”
“Shut up, Liv, and look at the map. Why are you always such a pain in the ass?”
“Because we’re always moving,” I snapped. “Why did we have to leave Akron? I liked it there.”
I did, too. I’d been able to start fourth grade at the beginning of the year, which meant I wasn’t as much the “new girl” as I would have been if I’d started mid-year. I’d even made a few friends, and my teacher, Mrs. White, was nice.
“There’s nothing in Akron,” Crystal replied. “We need to go somewhere where things are happening.”
By the time we got to Cleveland, we were out of money and down to a quarter tank of gas. Turned out Nadine’s brother Tom worked at a garage, and my mother talked him into filling the gas tank and checking the car. Then she booked us into a cheap motel room and told me to wait for her there.
She was gone for two days. I watched TV and ate candy bars and chips from the vending machine. When Crystal returned, she smelled like cigarette smoke and had a wad of twenties in her pocket. Even then, I wondered what she’d done for them.
Now I shove aside all the old emotions, reminding myself that my life is completely different. It’s been different for over fifteen years. I’ll never be that uncertain and afraid again. And I will not be the kind of mother Crystal was.
I take the maternity clothes out of the bag and spread them out on the bed. The stretch panels mean I can wear them throughout the pregnancy. I do a little mixing and matching with some of my other shirts, then fold everything up and put it all in my suitcase. I realize I forgot to give Joanna the chocolates I bought her, and I put them on the dresser.
I change into yoga pants and a T-shirt and sit at the desk. I open my Liv’s Manifesto notebook. After a moment of thought, I write:
An unfamiliar feeling winds through me. I grip the pen harder and keep writing.
I put the pen down and reread the list.
You.
I turn on my computer and type a few words into a search engine. I’m perusing several lists when Dean comes in. He kisses me on the forehead and gives me an update about his father before he flops down on the bed and pulls a loop of string from his jeans pocket.
“Chaucer, huh?” I ask.
“What?” Dean glances up from twisting the string around his fingers.
“You wanted to name our kid Chaucer.” I look at him with a raised brow, my hands poised over the keyboard. “Not if you expect to stay married.”
He manages to look offended. “Chaucer is a classic name. Great historical significance.”
“You might as well put a teasing target on the kid’s back.”
“We could shorten it to Chet.”
“Chet West. Sounds like the name of a spaghetti western hero. Come see Ride ’Em, Cowboy, starring Tom Mix and Chet West.”
“Hmm. Not sure that’s a movie I’d want to see.” Dean unravels the string from his fingers. “So, what brilliant name ideas do you have?”
“I’ve always liked the name Elliott.”
“Great. Our kid will forever be associated with E.T. Everyone will be telling him to phone home.”
We glower at each other for a few seconds before I turn back to the computer. “What if it’s a girl? And don’t you dare say Hildegard or Goditha.”
“Isabella.”
I pause, my fingers on the computer keys. “That’s nice.”
“Bella for short.”
I look at him. “Really nice.”
Dean smiles. I get all soft inside. He looks pleased with himself.
“Just don’t tell me Isabella was some medieval queen who ended up getting burned at the stake,” I warn.
“Isabella of Angoulême became the queen of England. She was beautiful and fierce.”
“Say no more.” I like the idea of naming a daughter after a woman who was beautiful and fierce. As long as I don’t know if she met an untimely end. “Isabella if it’s a girl. And if it’s a boy?”
“Durwin.”
“No.”
“Arthur.”
“No.”
“Roland.”
“No.”
“Sedgewick.”
“Hell no.”
“Nicholas.”
I pause again. “Nicholas is a medieval name?”
“Lots of medieval Nicholases. There was a Pope Nicholas who started an artistic revival in Rome. There was a sculptor, a goldsmith, a philosopher...”
“Hmm.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it? Nicholas West.”
I don’t respond immediately, for no other reason than to make him sweat a little. Finally I nod. “It does sound good.”
Dean looks almost surprised. “You agree?”
“Nicholas West or Isabella West.” My heart thumps as I picture a pink-cheeked baby. Our pink-cheeked baby. Nicholas or Isabella.
“That’s it?” Dean’s grinning like he just won an award. “Those are the names?”
“Those are the names.” I push away from the computer and go to lower myself into his lap. “Nice work, professor.”
“You too, beauty.” He rubs my belly in slow circles and then down between my legs.
“You sure you want to?” I ask as a warm tingle slides through my blood.
“As long as you feel okay.”
“I feel fine, but I am gaining weight, you know.”
“So?”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
�
�Of course not.” Dean pushes a lock of hair away from my shoulder. “What, you think you won’t turn me on when you’re bigger?”
“I still have a long way to go. It could get… awkward.”
“So we’ll figure it out.” He pulls me to him and eases his hand between my thighs again.
“You know, there’ll probably be a time when we won’t be able to manage much position-wise,” I warn him. “Or at least, I won’t. And I have no idea what happens hormonally when things progress. Maybe my sex drive will disappear.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when Dean starts laughing.
Before I can scowl at him, he pulls me closer for a long, deep kiss. I sigh and settle against him. Just as we’re getting into it, a knock sounds on the door. Dean mutters a noise of irritation as we separate. He pushes to his feet and goes to open the door.
Paige is standing in the hallway, her hands on her hips. She glances past Dean to me.
“What is it, Paige?” he asks.
“Archer called. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVIA
have an urge to escape, like a rabbit who senses an approaching wolf. Dean hasn’t seen his younger brother in five years, and I’m part of the reason why. If not the reason. I’d met Archer West once, during Thanksgiving weekend the first year Dean and I were together.
We arrived at the San Jose airport in late morning the day before Thanksgiving. Lines of traffic moved sluggishly over the highway. We drove out of San Jose and into the wealthy computer-money suburbs of Cupertino, Saratoga, and Los Gatos.
The sheer expanse and beauty of the West home was totally foreign to me, the girl who’d lived in cramped apartments and slept on sofas in strangers’ living rooms.
Richard West was a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and an almost tangible shield of reticence. Joanna West looked like she’d been to finishing school with her model-like posture, coiffed hair, and designer suit. I might have had a hard time imagining her capable of an affair if I didn’t know quite well that people concealed all sorts of things behind their facades.
