Chapter 19 Mia
NINETEEN
MIA
We head out to the clinic’s parking lot. Theo stays close, scanning as we walk.
Always looking for danger.
Always keeping us safe.
As soon as we’re in the car and Theo starts the engine, Jensen says to me, “You hungry, baby?”
“I’m five months pregnant. I’m always hungry.”
His hand gravitates to my bump, resting over our daughter.
Our daughter.
“You want to stop and get lunch?”
“Obviously.”
He takes me to L’ame Gourmande, a sleek upscale eatery we’ve been to a hundred times for dinner, but it feels like overkill for the middle of the day. Crisp white tablecloths and artwork cover the walls from a French artist whose pieces sell for six figures. I know because I’ve sold a few.
The waiters are dressed in black-and-white, tall and poised. I would’ve happily sat in one of those mom and pop style diners scattered across the city, and ordered a burger with everything on it. But Jensen’s in that mood where he wants this to be a memory, something sweet after seeing our baby.
The waiter hands me a menu, his eyes darting over to Theo, who’s taken position a few tables away. Close enough to step in if we need him to, but far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
I hate that has to sit on his own.
“What would Madame like to drink?”
“I’d love a shot of tequila,” I say, holding my hand over my noticeably pregnant belly, “but unfortunately I think we’ll have to stick with tea.”
His eyes drop to my stomach before lifting back to my face, as if he’s not sure if I’m joking. “I’ll have an espresso,” Jensen says. “Do you know what you want to eat, sweetheart?”
“The filet mignon,” I say without even looking at the menu. “Do you have mashed potato?”
“We have three different types. The classic pommes purée with a rich seasoning of thyme and rosemary. Or truffle potato purée. This has garlic, Parmesan cheese and of course the finest sourced truffle oil. There is also buttermilk whipped potatoes and pomme mousseline—that’s my personal favorite.”
I blink.
How the hell are there that many names for mashed potato? I lift my lashes just a fraction to look at Jensen, expecting him to, I don’t know, help me out. Instead, he’s staring at me like I’m the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.
I smile up at the waiter, my expression tight. “Which one of those is mashed potato?”
Now he’s blinking. “They’re all potato purée, Madame,” he says it like I’ve insulted the entire concept of fine dining.
Potato purée?
I lean across the table, my bump pressing to the edge. “I just want mash, Jensen,” I whisper, as if the waiter can’t hear my desperation. “Standard mashed potato. The kind we ate when we were kids. Maybe with a little butter in it. A little seasoning. I don’t need truffle oil in my potatoes.”
He finally takes pity on me, slipping his fingers through mine on the tabletop. “She’ll have the pomme purée.”
The waiter lifts his chin, like he’s worried they may have dropped a Michelin star because I asked for something so basic.
Better buckle in, sunshine, because my next request is going to blow your mind.
“Fantastic,” I say. “I’ll have that. And can I have a serving of tomato soup with it?”
His brows knit together. I’m fairly certain I’m breaking this poor man’s spirit. He’s never going to look at a bowl of seasoned potatoes the same again. “You’d like that as a starter?”
“No, at the same time as the rest of the food please.”
Jensen coughs into his hand, smothering the laugh he’s trying to hide. The waiter looks positively scandalized now. Like the concept of eating a starter and main at the same time is so foreign to him.
His smile is tight, but polite. “Of course. And for you, Sir?”
Jensen places his order with a lot less drama. By the time the waiter scurries off, my husband is looking at me like he’ll burn down this entire restaurant if I don’t get my mashed potato and tomato soup.
“I think I depressed that poor man,” I murmur.
He snorts. “I don’t care about him. I care that you and my daughter get whatever you need. You could’ve order every potato dish on the menu just to get the right thing and I wouldn’t have blinked.”
I glance around like a meerkat. “Maybe we should call him back.”
He laughs this time. “Sweetheart, if you push that man any more, he’s going to have a breakdown in the middle of the restaurant.”
I grimace. “Wait until he realizes that I got the tomato soup to dip the filet mignon in.”
Jensen stares at me for a beat. “You’re going to dip a $60 prime cut of beef into tomato soup?”
“And the mash.” I sit back, defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. The baby wants it.”
His eyes glow with that obsessive reverence he always gives me when I talk about what the baby wants. “Then the baby gets it.”
“I’m pregnant and craving things. It’s disgusting, I know, but I’m not going to be able to think about anything else until I eat it.”
He lifts my hand and kisses the back of my knuckles. “Sweetheart, I would fly you all the way to Paris to feed you authentic pomme purée on the banks of the River Seine if you asked for it. I don’t care what you eat. I’m just happy you are.”
And now I’m soft for him. He handled my loss of appetite and morning sickness about as well as you’d expect from a man like him. That’s to say, he didn’t.
“You say that now, babe, but if my appetite keeps going like this, I’m going to be waddling before I’m even out of the second trimester.”
“Good. I can’t wait to watch your belly grow, and you’ll look adorable doing that sweet little waddle.”
Okay, that’s ridiculous. I’m about to fire back something sassy and hilarious when I feel it. A quiver inside my stomach, more than a flutter, more than gas bubbles—something more noticeable. My hand flies to the side of my bump.
“Mia?” Jensen’s half out of his seat already. “What’s wrong?”
I blink as I feel it again. This time, stronger. I grab his hand, pulling him closer, and press it against my belly. Nothing happens for a moment.
Did I imagine it?
Jensen’s watching me intently, like he’s not sure what is happening, and then I feel it.
A twitch against the inside of my stomach.
He sucks in a breath, his eyes flying to mine. And he presses a little harder, as if he’s trying to touch our daughter from the outside. “She kicked.”
Tears fill my eyes. “You felt that?”
He nods, his jaw tight like he’s trying to hold back a monsoon of emotion. “Barely, but yeah, I felt it. It was like a ripple under your shirt.”
“I guess she really is excited about my lunch decision.”
He drops to his knees at the side of my chair, like all the energy leaves his body, and presses his forehead to my belly. People look in our direction, and I can tell our waiter is two seconds from asking us to leave.
But Jensen doesn’t care. Because he’s feeling our daughter move inside me. My eyes are wet as I trail my fingers through his hair. “She has perfect timing.”
He lifts his head and looks at my belly like he’s logging how this moment felt. Then he kisses me like he’s not sure how to breathe without our mouths fused together. Everything tunnels to him and this moment and when he cups the back of my neck heat skitters down my spine.
If I wasn’t sitting down, my legs would be weak. As it is, he leaves me trembling, on the verge of begging for more.
Our waiter’s going to have a heart attack at his rate.
“You make me so happy,” he says.
I melt. Of course I do. How could I not?
Later that evening, Jensen fucks me in our bed like he’s trying to fuse our bodies together. His hands roam over my belly the whole time, filthy words spilling from his mouth like he can’t stop them. Like he needs to tell me who owns my body and the baby inside me.
He worships every inch of my bump, talking to our daughter until my heart is so full I’m crying.
When we go to sleep that night, his arm bands around my bump, and his cock stays buried inside me until the morning, like he can’t bear to be parted from me.
And I don’t want him to be.