33. Hunter
Chapter thirty-three
Hunter
Waking up next to Ellie, the sunlight filtering through the blinds and bouncing off her blonde hair …
it’s as if she’s glowing. At some point in the night, we shifted so that I’m on my back, with Ellie wrapped around me and little Sweetpea pressed between us.
I tighten my grip around Ellie’s shoulders, not wanting this moment to end.
I replay last night, the feeling of Ellie tucked against me. Her fingertips tracing my tattoo—something she’s been doing with increasing frequency. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I notice every single time.
Ellie snuggles into me—still asleep—her nose dangerously close to my armpit. I discreetly sniff my other armpit, making sure the situation isn’t too bad. I’d hate to blow this moment with Ellie because of faulty deodorant. Thankfully, I pass the sniff check and breathe a sigh of relief.
I gently place a hand on Ellie’s stomach, quietly saying good morning to Sweetpea. We’re doing alright, baby girl, I tell her subconsciously. I’ll always protect you.
My stomach clenches as I think about the interaction with Dylan last night.
The way he smirked at Ellie, as if he had no fear of getting exactly what he wanted out of the situation.
What does he want? I wonder. When I think about him calling Ellie his leftovers, anger whips through me like a tornado.
When Ells wakes up, the first thing I’m going to do is call the cops and put extra surveillance on that creep. I just wish I understood what motivated him. And how I could use that against him to protect Ellie and Sweetpea.
“You called me Angel.” Ellie’s gruff morning voice surprises me.
“I did.”
“Why ‘Angel’?”
“I’ve always thought you looked like an angel,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe because you’re beautiful, and kind, and good.”
“Real angels are hideous.” She grins up at me, laughter in her eyes, and I can’t help but join her.
On Monday, after the Christmas dance, I call a lawyer and set an appointment. Of course, with the holiday this week, they couldn’t see us until next week. Which makes me want to jump through the roof in anticipation.
But there’s one thing I’ve got to do before Sweetpea is born.
Dylan.
I pull into his truck yard. Before getting out, I check my gun, my thumb brushing the grip where it sits in the holster under my jacket, making sure it’s seated right. One quick press of the magazine base. Solid. Ready.
It’s eerily quiet as I get out of the truck. Rows of rigs sit like sleeping giants, their chrome catching the morning sun. Somewhere metal clangs in the wind.
My boots crunch on the gravel and I quickly check around the space before heading toward the main building. A security camera pivots toward me, tracking my movement.
Dylan stalks out before I’ve had a chance to knock on the office door.
The guy has an extremely punchable face.
Everything Ellie told me about their relationship runs through my head as he smirks at me.
The only reason I don’t land one on him right now is because when I told Ellie where I was going, I promised her I wouldn’t. And I’d like to keep that promise.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Dawson, I don’t have any other wives for you to steal,” Dylan says with a grin.
I clench my teeth, trying to ignore the comment. “You need to stay away from Ellie.”
“Oh I see,” he drawls. “You’re her guard dog now, huh?”
“She didn’t send me,” I say plainly. “I came because husbands are supposed to protect their wives. Keep ’em safe.”
Dylan barks out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“That’s what a real man would do. But apparently that particular gene didn’t just skip a generation, it skipped all the men in your entire gene pool.
” Maybe it’s a low blow, but I want Dylan to know that I’m on to him, and I’d be willing to bet he’s ashamed he turned out to be anything like his dad.
Dylan strides forward until he’s close enough that most guys would back up.
But I’m not most guys.
“Don’t preach at me, soldier boy,” he hisses.
“I didn’t come to preach, I came to lay hands,” I say with a smirk of my own.
Dylan goes to shove me, but I’m already moving. I sidestep, hook his arm, and use his own momentum against him. A heartbeat later his chest hits the gravel with a grunt. My knee settles between his shoulder blades while I trap his wrist against the ground.
“Consider this your warning,” I say before standing up and backing away.
Dylan scrambles to his feet, his chest heaving and dirt covering his front.
When he looks like he’s going to lunge at me again, I pull back my jacket, revealing my gun.
“You want to control Ellie, you’re gonna have to go through me first. And you need to know, I’m going to be a whole heck of a lot harder to get through than she is. ”
Dylan’s eyes shift from mine to the gun before he brushes past me, making his way toward one of his rigs. “Stand down, soldier,” he calls over his shoulder. “No need to get your panties in a bunch.”
“Look, we both know that the thing that you want is to control Ellie by any means necessary,” I call after him.
“You push this, Dylan, and every court date, every visitation request, every legal motion will cost you time and money. I will make it incredibly hard for you. And in the end? You still won’t get what you want.
I will only let you be a minor inconvenience to her. Like a fly buzzing around.”
He turns around, his smirk falling off. Still, I feel the anger rolling off him in waves.
“Go control someone else, Dylan. You don’t want a kid, Ellie said you never did. Just let them go, man.”
He looks like he wants to crush me under his boot.
Well, right back at ya, pal.
I shift my jacket again, reminding him of my threat. He narrows his eyes and spits on the ground beside him before turning and walking to one of his rigs.
I wonder if his silence is a good sign or the start of a new game …
Only time will tell.
I’m beginning to think our full-time jobs as soon-to-be parents are going to doctor’s appointments and birthing classes.
After calling the cops about Dylan’s breach of the restraining order—and contacting Connor to expand surveillance on Dylan—we’re back in Dr. Greene’s office.
Thankfully, Sweetpea’s measurements have caught up with where she’s supposed to be.
Which is good news, because Ellie’s chief complaint these days is that I’m overfeeding her.
With Ellie at forty-one weeks, the topic of conversation is how to get Ellie to go into labor—naturally.
Ellie’s pretty insistent about that part, which I support.
We’ve eaten all the spicy foods. Walked the neighborhood a hundred times over.
Rubbed weird-smelling essential oils all over her feet.
Consumed a record-breaking amount of dates.
Apparently, there’s one thing we haven’t tried.
But what Dr. Greene is suggesting … I’m not sure if I heard her correctly. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I choke out.
“Have you tried intercourse?” Dr. Greene repeats. She says this serenely, as if this is a conversation she has with all her patients.
Ellie and I both stare at her, jaws hanging open. I’m wracking my brain for some other meaning of the term “intercourse” that I could possibly be missing. But … nope. That’s the only definition that’s coming to mind.
“You won’t hurt the baby,” the doctor says, a gentle look cast my way. I find that I can’t even look the good doctor in the eye. “You might as well give it a try. If you go another week, we’ll have to induce, which is fine, but I know you’re wanting to be as natural as possible.”
“So … w-why would that work?” Ellie stammers.
And to my horrification, Dr. Greene waxes poetic about the wonders of the deed on pregnant women. Phrases that I’ll never be able to wipe from my mind pour forth from the doctor. Things that should mark this conversation as NSFW. Except intercourse has never sounded less sexy.
As we shuffle out of the doctor’s office, an awkward tension settles between us. I know I should make a joke to lighten the mood, but my mind is too filled with medical jargon that I never wanted to hear.
It’s not until I’m turning the key in my truck that I think of something to say. “Well, as your husband, I suppose it’s my duty to volunteer as tribute for this … natural method.” I attempt to joke, but it falls flat.
Ellie grows quiet, staring out the window. I’ll admit, it’s not my best line. But Ellie’s reaction, or lack thereof, makes me think I’ve missed something.
I shift in my seat to face her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Tears fill her eyes as she sputters, “I’m just completely undesirable. I can’t even get my own husband”—she waves a hand wildly toward me—“to sleep with me, even if the doctor orders it!”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. These days, Ellie can go from introspective to hysterical in 0.5 seconds flat. But laughing at her outburst will only make it worse.
Ask me how I know.
I reach across the console and take her hand. “Ellie,” I say gently, trying to get her to look at me. “Ells.”
She turns toward me, simultaneously rolling her eyes at me and wiping her tears. “What?”
“Any guy would be lucky to have a doctor’s order to, uh, you know …” Okay, weird start, buddy. I clear my throat. “It’s not how I pictured our first time, but …”
Not much better, Hunter.
I sigh, wiping my face with my other hand. When I look back at Ellie, she’s staring at me—hopefully—with her big doe eyes. “You’ve thought about … our first time?”
“Well.” No use lying about it, I guess. “Yeah.”
Her eyes widen yet a hint of a smile touches her lips. After a moment she says, “I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not … yet. But it’s nice to know you are.” She pats my hand—as if I were a kid asking for cookies and she just told me, “After you eat your whole dinner, sweetie.”
She sits back in her seat, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
I put the truck in drive, but before I ease off the gas, I pick up Ellie’s hand and place a kiss on the inside of her wrist, letting my lips linger there.
She turns back to me, a heated look in her brown eyes.
“You just let me know when you are ready, Ells.”
Her lips part, but no words come. I shift my focus to driving, backing out of our parking spot—my own self-satisfied smile gracing my face.
Because I think Ellie might be more ready than she’s letting on.