Knocked Up

by Stacey Lynn

  I can think of a few ways and those thoughts sear a heat to my chest before I can shake them off. It’s sweet. Too fast, but sweet.

  It’s the sweetness that draws me in because he’s not the kind of guy who appears like he should be sweet, and yet it’s his kindness that pulled me in as soon as I met him. It took me approximately thirty seconds to see past the muscles and the sex-on-a-stick body and all that ink I wanted to lick all over the place. It’s his kindness and honesty that seal the deal now. At least with some limits.

  “This Friday, the art gallery has a showing. Would you like to be my date?”

  “Yes.” He nods and does what I wanted to do earlier. He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his and runs his thumb over my palm. “Yes, I would like to be your date.”

  “Okay then.” I pop an onion into my mouth and nod. “Good.”

  “And moving in with me?”

  “Too soon. We can try dating, but not that.” I fumble with how to say it, not wanting to hurt him, but like I’ve already said, honesty is what we need right now. “I moved out on my own to prove to myself I can do it. I still need that, I guess.”

  “Understood.” His hand is still holding mine, his thumb swishing back and forth along my palm and it’s such a small touch, but it’s not innocent. That tiny little swipe of his skin against mine sparks a sweet hot sensation and spreads it through my body. “Would I talk you into it if I tell you Lucy misses you?”

  “She does?” I smile. I liked his dog. I’ve never been able to have one and have always dreamed of having a pet. Mom said they smelled and made messes and she couldn’t be bothered with anything that would disrupt her perfectly ordered life or home.

  “Every night I let her out of her kennel and she runs straight to the guest room. She whines so much when I take her out I eventually just put the kennel in there.”

  “That’s…” Weird, I think, but I don’t say it. It makes my heart warm in a way I can’t remember it ever feeling. “I miss her too. But do you want me moving in with you just because I like your dog?”

  I’m teasing him, and I hope he sees it. Based on the fact he doesn’t get upset, or annoyed, but smiles that heartbreakingly beautiful smile of his, I figure he gets it.

  “No. I don’t want you to move in with me just because you like my dog. I want you to like me.”

  I pull my hand from his slowly and regretfully, but while I’m trying to jump and reach for my dreams, small safe jumps are better than leaps. I smile at him, showing him what I’m not yet capable of saying, that I like him too, but not enough.

  I dig into my soup.

  “Friday,” Braxton says, sitting back in the booth. “We’ll start with Friday.”

  He has a plan cooking in his eyes, something I’m sure I don’t want to know about, so I nod my agreement and take slow, measured sips of my soup.

  This is good. There’s a chance we might be good, but I still hear the whispered voices of disapproval from my parents, and a rock settles deep in my stomach.

  At some point, I’m not only going to have to tell them I’m pregnant, I’m going to have to introduce them to Braxton. I might have just climbed a significant hill, but I’m not sure the mountainous obstacle of Mr. and Mrs. Cliff Thompson is one we’ll be able to scale unscathed.

  But Friday. We can start with Friday.

  Chapter 11

  Cara

  Good morning. Feeling okay?

  The phone dings from my bathroom counter where I’m getting ready for work. It’s Friday, three days since I’ve seen Braxton, three days since I invited him to be my date for the gallery showing. We’ve been texting constantly, and always, my day starts with this same text from him.

  I grin as I slide my thumb across the screen as another text comes in.

  I’ll pick you up at six tonight. Can’t wait to see you.

  My cheeks ache from the stretch of my smile and I type out a slew of texts I know Braxton wants to see.

  I ate two crackers this morning and didn’t puke. Yay! #Pregnancygoals

  I’ll be ready for you.

  His reply is almost immediate, as it usually is. It appears that when Braxton told me on Tuesday he didn’t want to miss a minute of my pregnancy, he wasn’t the least bit joking. It feels strange to constantly have someone texting me, or calling as he sometimes does at night, just to see how I’m feeling. It feels really good too. My parents could hardly be bothered with Jimmy and me growing up. Our nanny Sasha was the one who picked us up from school when we had the flu and prayed for us before bed. My mom always seemed like us being children and getting the occasional flu or strep throat was more of an annoyance to her schedule. So while it’s taking time to get used to Braxton checking in on me, I also keep smiling every time he does.

  That’s what I like to hear—about you being ready for me.

  And congrats on the crackers. Hopefully you’re on the tail end of morning sickness.

  Goodness. Between caring for me and making it clear he wants me in a way he’s already had me, Braxton is making it entirely difficult to take things slow.

  As far as his hopes on the puking—a girl can dream. I spent most of yesterday afternoon puking at the gallery, reassuring Luca a million times that I was just fine. He’s the owner, early thirties, a slim Italian man who’s not only quite the playboy, but, well, he enjoys playing with boys. When I first met him, it wasn’t exactly obvious that he was gay, and my heart squeezed a bit when his current monthly fling showed up and popped a kiss right on his lips in front of me. He’s a good guy, an even better boss, giving me way too much flexibility over the last few weeks. Yesterday we were so busy with final preparations and verifying the catering and deliveries and artwork setup, as well as soothing the fragile and worried egos of the artist we’re showing tonight, that I’d forgotten to eat lunch. Which meant my stomach, needing to always have something in it, revolted from my neglect.

  Braxton wasn’t thrilled when he called last night. I was already in bed at seven o’clock, tucked in and rewatching Sons of Anarchy on Netflix. He insisted on coming over to check on me.

  I barely managed to hold him off, promising that tonight, I’d do something I’m still not entirely sure I’m ready to do.

  I’m going back to his apartment after the show so he can make sure the same thing doesn’t happen tonight or tomorrow morning.

  To say I’m nervous about spending this night at his place again is a massive understatement, but at least this morning’s lack of nausea helps me feel better. By the time I leave for work, it’s the first time in weeks where I haven’t felt like I’m dragging an additional thirty pounds behind me.

  I waltz into Gallio’s Galleria a few minutes early. The bell chiming above the door behind me grabs Luca’s attention immediately. He’s at my desk at the entrance, leafing through the binder I prepare for all of his showings, and when he sees me, his eyes pop wide open.

  “Cara, honey, what are you doing here?”

  “Um. I work here.”

  He checks his shining gold watch and his thin black brows crinkle. “Yes, at eight-thirty, and here it’s only eight twenty-two.” He lifts his head and looks even more confused. “I do not understand.”

  Shaking my head, I walk to him and playfully shove his shoulder. “I’m early. It’s not the first time.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  I’m grinning now, silently laughing at this hottie of an Italian man who still carries the faintest of accents and proper language and shove him out of my way. Punctuality and I have never been the best of friends. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Ah, yes. Work, work, work. That’s all you’re concerned about. My question for you is, when do you play?”

  He wiggles his black brows again, bouncing them up and down letting me k
now exactly what he’s implying.

  My hand drops to my stomach, a small pouch visible to me but most likely not to others. Mostly it appears like I’ve constantly eaten four too many egg rolls. It’s not yet a cute pregnancy belly, just a bloated pouch. “I think I’ve played enough.”

  “Yes, of course.” He rolls his eyes and strolls from my desk to pour me a cup of hot water. I’ve found hot water and lemon in the morning soothes my stomach. “And the man you play with is coming tonight, correct?”

  Luca is hilarious and a big old ball of playful trouble. I’ve told him almost all about Braxton, holding back specific details, especially his looks. Mostly because Luca would be on that like white on rice, even if Braxton doesn’t swing that way. Luca admires the beauty in people, and he’s not afraid to show it. I just don’t need to hear about what my eyes can see just fine all day long either.

  “Yes, Luca, he’s coming.” He hands me my hot water and I take a small sip, testing the heat. “Thank you for this.”

  “My pleasure, beautiful Cara.”

  We get to work then, preparing for the deliveries coming later this afternoon. Originally we didn’t need additional help in setting up the gallery, but now Luca is forcing me to be cautious about the weight I lift. He’s hired two men to come and unload the tables and display walls where we’ll hang the remaining artwork from our basement storage. Once they arrive, I spend the rest of the morning directing them to where they need to be set up. After they leave, I adjust the tables to the precise location to show the best.

  Luca yells at me twice to stop the heavy lifting.

  I shake my head and keep working. It’s ridiculous how overprotective he’s become since learning I’m having a baby.

  Today, I’m smarter than yesterday, keeping a small bag of snack foods—wheat crackers, almonds, and raisins—nearby so I can snack off and on, whenever I get the urge. When lunchtime rolls around, I’m not only still feeling well, but we don’t have much to do except adjust some of the artwork’s showcase lighting and finish covering the food and display tables with some accessories.

  I smooth out a tablecloth where the wine and champagne glasses will be set, right next to where the bar will be, when the door chimes.

  I turn as Braxton waltzes in, holding two paper bags in one hand and tugging off his gray knitted hat with the other.

  “Hi.” My hands slip down my hips, smoothing out my black dress pants just to give my hands something to do. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds up the paper bags and walks toward me. “I brought you lunch today so you don’t get sick.”

  Heart. Melt. Puddle. Floor. My entire body seems to liquefy. He’s a miraculously sweet man in the body of a gladiator and continues to throw me off course.

  “Thank you. That was really nice of you.” I’m breathless. It’s his fault. No one should be so nice and attractive. I don’t know what to do with him.

  “Not a problem.” His gaze takes a quick tour around the gallery, hesitating on some of the already displayed artwork before dropping back down to me. “This place is incredible. Did you do all this?”

  “Um. Yeah, most of it, with Luca, the owner. Thanks.”

  Free food delivered and compliments are too much for this hormonal girl to handle.

  “Is there somewhere we can eat this?” he asks.

  “You’re staying?” I can’t hide the further surprise in my voice and Braxton’s confidence slips for a moment.

  “I’d planned on it.”

  Right. Of course. This is good. This is better than good. So why am I so nervous to share another meal with him? It’s not our first. It’s not even our second or third if you count the wedding weekend where we were sat close to each other. I’m being an idiot.

  “No, no, it’s fine. Of course you can stay. I’d like it.”

  “If you keep rambling,” he says, leaning down low so his smile is bright enough to make me squint. He’s so much taller than me, almost a full foot, and when he gets close and leans into me like this my body does strange things in reaction—like lean closer. “I’m going to have to kiss you again to get you to stop.”

  My mouth snaps closed and my teeth click together.

  His grin turns wolfish.

  “Well, well, well, who is this beautiful piece of canvas that’s arrived in my gallery?” Luca’s voice echoes in the wide-open building, bouncing off gleaming wood floors and brick walls up to the exposed pipes above. His shoes click on the floor, growing louder as he quickly approaches.

  “Luca—” I warn, but it’s hopeless. I’d forgotten he was here, and if I’d remembered, I would have ushered Braxton out the door immediately to prevent this exact scenario.

  “Luca Gallano,” he says, holding out his hand as he approaches us. “So lovely to have such beautiful art in my gallery this afternoon.”

  “Uh.” Braxton’s eyes dart to mine and I shrug.

  “He means you’re the art.”

  “Uh.”

  I stifle a laugh. I’ve never seen Braxton look so uncertain. It’s endearing, and I decide to let this conversation swing however it may instead of attempting to stop it.

  I want to see how Braxton can handle Luca, who not only doesn’t care about social manners but instead barrels through them.

  “Braxton Henley,” he finally says, gripping Luca’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  Luca sighs and covers Braxton’s hand with his free one, so he’s holding him more intimately than just a polite handshake. “What brings you here, Mr. Delectable Piece of Art?”

  With his hand still encapsulated by Luca and his other hand still holding our lunch, he gestures with his head in my direction. “Cara. I’m here for Cara.”

  Understanding dawns in Luca’s eyes. Still, he doesn’t let go of Braxton’s hand. We’ve now well surpassed the point of politeness with his hand grab, but Luca leans in, tugging Braxton’s hand closer to him. Rolling to his toes, he stage-whispers, “Oh. You’re the man she plays with, I assume then.” He flashes me a deliciously evil wink. “What good taste you have.”

  “Played,” I choke out. This is what happens when I let Luca run wild. “Just once.”

  “Although I’m hoping for a rematch soon,” Braxton says, and slowly but I can tell firmly from the way his forearm flexes, he peels his hand from Luca’s. “Very soon.”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  Luca’s boisterous laugh fills the space. “Of course you are! How could you not? Cara is beautiful.”

  “She is.” Braxton says the word to Luca, but his eyes are now on me, and he’s no longer confused or embarrassed. No, the look he’s currently flashing is intentional, proving exactly how much he wants that “rematch.”

  What in the world have I gotten myself into?

  Still, there’s food to eat and a new, strange feeling deep in my abdomen.

  “We should eat lunch,” I force out, although my throat is now gritty.

  “One more thing,” Luca says, pointing a finger in the air. “You will take care of her, correct? And the baby?”

  His delightful teasing is gone, and in its place is a possessive look in Luca’s eyes I’ve never seen unless he’s examining art he wishes to purchase.

  “I take care of what’s mine,” Braxton confirms. There’s no mistaking the confidence in his voice.

  He might have thrown out the idea of us dating, but it’s clear he already considers me his.

  I bristle at the possession, and yet, it smooths away on its own. To be owned should feel like I’m being sent back fifty, sixty years in women’s rights. However, there’s a warmth about it too. I’ve been an obligation. I’ve been a distraction and annoyance.

  I don’t know if someone has ever looked at me and desired me the way Braxton see
ms to.

  “Good. Because she is very special. And should be treated as such.”

  “Luca—” I’m dying of humiliation and I can scarcely pull my eyes off Braxton to glare at Luca, but Braxton doesn’t give me the chance.

  He reaches over and curls his hand over Luca’s shoulder. I swear I see my boss shiver with pleasure. “I know. Trust me, Luca. I get it.”

  The men stare at each other, while I’m frozen. This is insane! They’ve both fallen off their rocker.

  I’m not special, just the girl who got knocked up, but with the way they seem to be having a conversation with only their manly glares, I want to be the woman they believe me to be. I want it desperately.

  “Lunch,” I say, forcing out the word on a mere, straggled breath. “I need to eat.”

  “Take all the time you need, loves,” Luca says, as I swing out my arm for Braxton to head toward the back of the gallery where we have a small, but updated and comfortable, kitchen area. “And do not worry about keeping the sound down, I like to listen!”

  “Oh my God,” I mutter. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Braxton slides his arm around my waist and squeezes. “I like him.”

  Chapter 12

  Braxton

  One of the most important lessons Irvin taught me was that time gives perspective to all circumstances.

  I’ve spent a lot of time this last week considering my new circumstances with Cara and while I was as blatant as I could possibly be at lunch the other day, I’m quickly learning blatancy and bluntness aren’t going to win her to me.

  She has a softness about her, a vulnerability that I don’t often see in women anymore who tend to be more aggressive or assertive. The confidence and bluster of women who believe they don’t have to wait around for a man to make the first move, or ask for the first date, or pay the dinner bill, isn’t a bad quality. Typically, if I’m enjoying the company of a woman, I don’t care if her hand reaches for the check, although I almost always reach for it first. But hey, if someone needs that, wants that, whatever.