Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  “Until you say something normal, I think so.” I grin.

  “What do you say? Operation Baby, The Real Deal?” His eyes are hopeful and clear. And absolutely brimming with love. I can see it now. It was there before, but I was avoiding it almost as much as he was.

  I smile so wide, my cheeks start to hurt. “I’m in.”

  It’s all I need to say. He crashes into me, lips to lips, chest crushed against my chest. We’re doing our damnedest to mold ourselves to one person while our clothes are still on. Honestly, it’s the most intense make-out session I’ve ever had—all of our previous sexual escapades included. Maybe because it’s not heading for sex. As heated as these kisses are, it’s not about an orgasm or any such gratification or goal like pregnancy. Which is fine, since sex is still off the menu for at least another week while I continue to heal.

  When we are finally ready to accept that we’re two separate human beings and cannot literally merge physically, we slowly part with several small soft kisses, each echoing the last.

  “Who’d have thunk it, Lolls?” he muses quietly. “We fake marry at seven years old, only to be downgraded to boyfriend and girlfriend and having a baby out of wedlock.” He winks at me, grinning like a goon.

  I marvel at his thought process, but give him the hairy eyeball. “Monkhouse, you’re my oldest friend. My best friend. You are not my boyfriend.”

  “I am now,” he argues, the most delicious confusion creasing his brow.

  “Are we?” I nearly crack a smile, because he’s even starting to doubt himself.

  “Aren’t we?” He’s totally lost.

  I have succeeded in my quest. “Why would we be?”

  “I said I love you!” he shouts.

  I throw my head back and cackle. “So did I.”

  “So we are, then.”

  “That doesn’t mean we are,” I reason, simply enjoying our tête–à–tête. It’s familiar, and it makes me warm inside. Even more so now that I’m legitimately in love with the idiot. We’re two idiots, I guess.

  “It doesn’t?” He’s truly shocked. Almost angry. “Well, what about now?”

  “We have to agree that that’s what’s happening.”

  “Fucking hell, Sophie. Are you mine or what? I have to actually ask this shit of my soul mate?”

  A crooked smile spears my cheek. “Smooth talker.”

  “That’s a yes, right? Because I’m not having it if twenty minutes from now you tell me it’s not official.”

  I kiss him. He pushes me away and I gasp.

  “I’m serious. Say it, Fordham. Say, ‘I’m yours’ or, ‘I’m your girlfriend, future baby mama as of, like, ten minutes ago when you said you were in love with me, because that should’ve been the start anyway.’ ”

  “That’s really wordy.”

  “Goddammit.” He twists back to roll off the bed. I don’t stop him. He stands up and spins to look at me. “Really?”

  I’m grinning—Joker style. “You tell me first.”

  I can almost hear his teeth grinding. “No, you first.”

  “You were mean,” I argue with a wink. He narrows his eyes, so I stick my tongue out.

  “Pain in my fuckin’ ass,” he grumbles, which only serves to entertain me. “I’m yours, Sophie Ann Lollipop. All yours. Whatever you want, need, that’s me. Me. You have all of me.”

  His voice gets really gentle at the end and it makes me a little teary. “Come here,” I say softly. But still smiling.

  He throws some hardcore angry Kermit face. It’s awesome. I lift my eyebrows. He adds some side-eye.

  “I’m yours, Fox!” I exclaim, flipping to my back and throwing my hands in the air. “Hallelujah! Praise be!”

  His expression lightens, his smile soft. “Such an asshole.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “And?” he asks, his chin jutting out.

  “And what? I think you’re leading the witness, counselor.”

  He gnashes his teeth again and inhales through his nose. “You’re mine, and…”

  I giggle. Shit, I’ve gone girlie flirty. Dammitalltohell.

  “Come back here and I’ll tell you.” I watch with giddy anticipation that travels all the way down in my gigi as he leans forward onto the bed. He crawls up, slowly advancing until he hovers over me. His knee drops between my legs to part them. As he wedges himself between my thighs, his lips melt into mine. What feels like hours later, our mouths part and we just breathe together. The same air, the same love.

  “And?” he repeats, his panting barely under control.

  “And your future baby mama as of like forever ago when you blah-blah I’m so full of myself because I’m Fox goddamn Monkhouse blah-blah—”

  “Enough, ENOUGH! Jesus H.” His kiss doesn’t end with words. It ends with naked. No sex, just cuddling and napping. Naked. Swear.

  The next few months consist of a lot of naked. Tons of the usual ridiculous us, but a considerably higher amount of naked. Naked swimming, naked naps, naked Mortal Kombat… and yeah, sex. During one of his overnight shifts, I bring him food at the hospital and we end up pulling a “this never really happens in real life” quickie in the on-call room.

  “Dude, I was just bringing you some meatloaf Mom made tonight,” I say, panting as Fox has me pressed up against the door.

  “Mmm, so good,” he mumbles against my neck.

  I snort. “You can’t wait until you get home in the morning? You know I’d wake up for that.”

  He frantically unfastens my jean shorts—button fly, because revenge—and growls when one gets stuck. “Hurry up!”

  Grinning, I take over undoing the buttons.

  “And you know I’m going to wake you up regardless,” he promises as he tears off his scrub top. “The question is how.”

  “Ha!” I declare as my shorts fall to the floor at the same time as his pants.

  He stops. “You are not wearing underwear.”

  I grin. “Well spotted, Monkhouse,” I say, jumping my eyebrows. “You catch on quick.”

  He grabs me at the waist and pulls me down to the bottom bunk, kissing the hell out of me. His kisses are still the best ever, yet he manages to one-up himself all the time. The entire frame creaks so badly, I think the hospital stole these beds from a long abandoned summer camp. I crack up because even if we’re quiet, this fucking bed won’t be.

  This fucking bed.

  The laughter increases in volume, so Fox slaps a hand over my mouth as he gets to work greeting the nipple twins with his tongue. He mumbles something around twin number one about not caring “what ridiculous joke” I thought of. I want to tease him, but what he’s doing feels too good. His palm muffles my moan. I lick said palm and he looks up, twin number two falling out of his mouth.

  “Are you trying to get us caught?”

  I nod silently, just to ramp him up. I watch his eyes darken, the hazel one looking like burnt caramel in this light. The pussy pearl throbs and the entirety of the land of lady parts clenches in anticipation. Feels pretty hydrated down there, too. I reach down to touch myself, and Fox snatches my hand. He lifts my fingers to his lips and sucks the tips.

  “Mine.”

  My next moan goes off uncovered until he kisses me, devouring any more sound—which is admittedly a lot, since his fingers have started prep work. And by prep work, I mean bringing me to a hella-fast first orgasm.

  By the time he gets inside me and we both come, I’ve had three. It’s insane, but I think the possibility of getting caught amped me up a little. Which ultimately, we do. Get caught, that is.

  As we attempt a surreptitious exit into the hallway, his shift supervisor is standing there rocking the bitchface of all bitchfaces. I’m crazy impressed. She holds out a clipboard with Fox’s apparent write-up and hands him a pen. Without a word, he takes it, signs it, and hands it back.

  “Strip the sheets, Monkhouse,” she says, clearly bored with the whole thing. I start to wonder if this does actually happen a lot. As
she starts to walk away, she cuts her eyes to me and says, “Three times, huh?” with a look of approval.

  Fox escorts me and my tomato face to the front doors.

  “Worth it,” Fox says. He kisses me hard before swatting my ass.

  I turn and walk toward my car when he calls, “I love you!” I stop, face him, and mouth the same. He winks and heads back in to finish his shift. And the meatloaf. Obviously.

  While getting pregnant is still on my—our—minds, I’m not as caught up on it when my period shows up. Fox seems disappointed, but when I ask him about it, he just says he’s sorry. I remind him first how it’s not his fault—entirely, ha ha—and how Dr. B. encouraged me when he went with me to follow up with her after the UK ordeal. She talked to us about how my system’s probably still resetting after the miscarriage. Not to mention, it gives us a little extra time to enjoy being the couple everyone keeps telling “we knew it all along” versus the Fox and Sophie we were before. Which is not all that different, really. People are just more likely to tell us to get a room.

  “Can I just ask?” Fox says, halting a pretty damn good foreplay sesh. I try to stab him with my icy stare, but he ignores it. “Why did we wait so long to hook up? I mean, this is the best—”

  “Fox,” I interrupt him—mostly because I’m irritated he’s paused our steamy forward progress to some no doubt hot as hell sexin’. “How can you forget I’ve known you forever and a day? I still remember your mother yelling at you constantly to stop picking your nose. That’s why I called you Sergeant Picker until fourth grade when you threatened to beat me up. But it got you to stop with the gold mining. At least, in public. Or at the dinner table.”

  “Excuse me, Crapster.”

  I gasp in surprise. “I shit my pants once—WHEN I GOT THE AWFULLEST MOST HEINOUS FLU EVER—and you called me Crapster for months! Don’t you remember I even stopped talking to you?”

  “I thought you were just ignoring me to piss me off.” He feigns introspectiveness.

  “I was ignoring you,” I say. “Not to piss you off, but because I didn’t consider you my friend.”

  “You unfriended me and I didn’t know it?” he asks, retroactively offended. “Why did you start talking to me again?”

  His look of confusion is priceless. I brush off the giggles as I hum in thought. “I think it was after your granny Bess died,” I reply quietly. “My parents took me to the memorial that was here in Cali. You didn’t call me Crapster so I decided to forgive you.”

  Fox’s arms close around me and pull me in tighter. “Thank fuck,” he mumbles. “Where would I be without you?”

  “Probably in a dumpster,” I say. “Fishing old hankies out of the trash to wipe your hands on since you couldn’t be bothered to stop picking your nose. I mean, if I hadn’t made you realize how nasty you were, you may have never ever gotten laid!”

  He pinches my ass. Hard. I squeal and wiggle, trying to get away from him, but he’s got me. In more ways than one, really.

  “You’re going to pay for that, Crapster,” he says, but the playfulness in his voice suggests I’m going to enjoy whatever my “punishment” is.

  “Bring it on, Mr. Picker,” I tease.

  “Mr. Picker? What happened to Sergeant?”

  “Dishonorably discharged.” My voice goes all “pillow talk” so it’s pretty clear that I’m ready to pay for my crime.

  After another six months of deliciousness—and yes, worry and anxiety, because let’s be real, my not-so-easy-bake-oven could crap out at any moment—it finally happens. I stand in Fox’s bathroom—well, our bathroom. After a few months of official boyfriend-girlfriend status, he had all but insisted I move in. I told him no at least five times before I realized he was right. I was practically living there already, and neither of us was as happy when we spent the nights apart. I even sleep better with him, which seems impossible, but most nights it’s true. So. Weird.

  I stare for far too long at the fifth pregnancy test I’ve peed on. The plus sign is somehow extra plus-y, so I think I’m finally willing to believe it. I take a deep breath, surprisingly nervous when I decide I’m ready to tell Fox we’re in business. It’s hard to believe the disaster of the last time could repeat itself, but I guess the “once bitten” syndrome is the real deal.

  It takes me a few extra seconds to shake it off. This is what we wanted. This was the plan. As a couple. Unless he loses his fucking mind, he should be excited.

  “Fox?” I call, my eyes waiting for his. He’s leaning on the kitchen counter, reading a magazine.

  “Yeah, baby?” He doesn’t look up.

  “Fox.”

  “What is it?” That magazine is about to get set on fire.

  “I hate you.”

  “What?” The incredulity in his voice makes me smile and the nervousness skips off a cliff. He finally looks up at me, though, and immediately notices what I’m holding. “What? Tell me right now.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I just wanted to say hi.”

  Kermit face. Score. “Lolls,” he says in warning.

  I tip a smile. “I’m pregnant.”

  He exhales and freezes. As in, he legit does not move and I begin to worry I broke something with the news.

  “Fox?”

  He doesn’t even blink.

  “FOX.”

  And then he breaks. First his lips part and then his breathtaking smile lights up his face. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I nearly whisper. I have these damned predictable tears forming in the corners of my eyes, but I don’t care anymore. The way he’s looking at me could warm and dry the oceans.

  He drops the magazine and in a blink, surrounds me. His body, his warmth, his scent. When he lifts me off my feet and kisses me, I’m surprised. We planned this, we love each other, and now, here we are. Where we wanted to be. No bullshit. But his genuine joy in the result makes me almost happier than the result itself.

  The kiss slows and he relaxes into a tight hold on me. His lips bounce along the edge of my face and jaw, teasing my neck until they plant on my shoulder. Then, bombs away.

  “Should we get married?”

  I nearly choke on my crackers. Well, I would if I were eating them. In fact, I would love some crackers. “Do you want to get married?” I ask. I’m confused as to why this is the immediate follow-up to being happy we’re pregnant.

  “We’re having a baby,” he replies as if that’s an answer.

  “Well, there’s a romantic proposal,” I say, nodding because clearly.

  He grunts. “Well, I mean, it seems like we should be hitched if we’re having a kid.”

  I hear the question in his voice and decide to fuck with him a little. Since I’m hormonal anyway, I let the lovey-girl-aww-squish thoughts help me bubble up some legit tears in my eyes. “I didn’t think—that is, I wasn’t sure if it was your thing, but if you’re into it?”

  He’s hiding it, but I can see the terror building in his mind. Fox clearly tries to swallow a boulder. “Y-you’re it for me, Lolls. Of course I am.” He means it, but he also thinks he’s in for it.

  I wipe my eyes after pushing some more tears out. “Oh, wow. Well”—I pause to inhale all the energy I’ll need to completely bullshit his face off—“I’ve always secretly wanted a huge wedding.”

  His eyes widen ever so slightly, but they’re twitching. “Really?” His voice is calm, which means all his play-along effort is there. Makes sense, since his toe has started tapping and he’s scratching at a mosquito bite enough to make it bleed.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m not the girlie-girl type—”

  “Which I love about you,” he interjects, and I frown. He rushes to add, “But whatever you want, I’m fine with!”

  “Okay, just tell me what you think of my idea,” I say, keeping my voice on an even keel as much as I can while getting excited—mostly because he’s shitting his pants. “The ceremony can be at the cathedral in Santa Rosa—I think the Redwood Country Club is right on the cliff. The view will be
so amazing, our guests will piss themselves.”

  He can’t hide his “WTF?” expression and I nearly lose it. However, I soldier on as he doesn’t seem to notice my slip.

  “That chef from San Francisco that was on the news last week? She does catering, so I thought we could blow it out and hire her. We’d better book now, though. She’s already got a year waiting list. We’ll have to pay for her travel, though, too.”

  I distinctly hear a whimper as he backs up and sits down on the couch, head in hands.

  “You don’t think so? She does French, Italian, all styles of Asian, standard American. She’s got an amazing knack for customizing menus.”

  “No, no, sounds great!” he declares from his “head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye” position. “You know I’ll eat any of it.”

  I cough again, because not laughing is not an option. “Sweet!” I say, high-pitched and overexcited. “Okay, so I was thinking we’d arrive at the reception in a carriage, gilded silver, but ya know, depending on budget, of course.”

  “Of course.” He’s not even trying now. In fact, he might be this close to hyperventilating.

  “But Nora knows a guy with stables so we might have a hookup.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “Oh! And a huge cake. Like, nine tiers, lots of frosting. No flowers and stuff, but maybe waves all over it, you know? Made of frosting. We can be on surfboards on top.”

  “Really?” He perks. It takes everything I have not to look at him funny. I barely manage to nod and grin. Fox’s lips tilt into a smile. “That’d be really awesome. I like that.”

  “Perfect!” I nearly shout—have to get him back on the “holy shit, my girlfriend is already a bridezilla” fear factor. I throw in some extra flaily arms and continue to pace, bouncing and shimmying randomly. I peek at him and he’s covering his mouth with both hands. I am not deterred. “I’m hoping I can get Daniel—you know, Iris’s husband? I’m thinking he can do a set of ice sculptures, too. Aaaand, her aunt has a friend who owns a flower shop who can do all the flowers. Lilies everywhere! And, oh my God, my dress! It’ll be a huge pouf like Cinderella. But strapless with lots of bling on the bodice. Maybe even some sparkly details on the skirt and the veil. And I want the train to be carried by our maid of honor and best man. It’ll be too long to drag behind me. Do you think nine bridesmaids is too many? I just don’t want to leave out my mom’s third cousin.”