Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Michelle
Yup, ten weeks pregnant one more time
W hat do you wear when your baby daddy is coming over at 9:00 a.m. to cook you breakfast on a holiday? Honestly, not only has Hallmark failed to prepare me for this entire situation, but Vogue has too.
I take stock of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long hair is thrown up into a messy bun. Hopefully it’s enough to hide the fact I haven’t showered since our date on Saturday. I spent yesterday alternating between working on my proposal for this afternoon’s meeting with my boss and experiencing my most severe morning sickness yet. It seems to have subsided when I woke up this morning. The dark circles under my eyes didn’t do me the same favor. My concealer is doing the heaviest lifting today.
My leggings and blouse are casual enough for this morning. Throwing a blazer on as I leave the house will transform it into day-off-turned-work-opportunity-meeting chic when I need to head to the station. Maybe I should pitch this column to Vogue. Or at least Cosmo. Start a college fund for little Cumulus.
A slightly hysterical giggle escapes before it’s cut off by a knock at the door. With one more quick glance, I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back. You can do this, Lewis.
Opening the door, I find Hunter leaning against the doorjamb on the hinge side, reusable bags in each hand. “Someone was leaving as I walked up, so I let myself in the building. Hope that’s okay.”
My breath catches, his words not really registering. I’m soaking in the way he combines the domestic of carrying groceries—and caring for the environment!—with the edge his tattoos project. Tattoos are visible on his forearms and biceps, the latter bulging where they’re tucked into the tight sleeves of his T-shirt from the weight of his groceries. The pressure of my teeth biting into my lower lip breaks me out of my stupor.
“Oh, shit. Hi. Come in.” I move out of the way to let him into my apartment.
Hunter chuckles. “Hi yourself.” He walks past me and heads to the counter to set his bags down. His cedar scent reaches my nose and lingers in the room as I follow him, suddenly finding it very hot in here.
“I brought a little bit of everything,” he says, unloading item after item onto the counter. “You mentioned some morning sickness, so wanted to be prepared for how you were this morning.” He turns to face me. “How are you feeling? You look a little flushed. Should you sit down?”
The sight of him in my kitchen, remembering the scramble he made me just ten weeks ago... is doing things to me. I’ve read about how increased libido can kick in near the end of the first trimester, but ...
“Michelle? Can I get you some water? You look like you should sit.” Hunter’s tone is laced with concern as he approaches me. I hold up my hand as he reaches for my arm, not entirely sure I can be held responsible if he touches me .
“Just reliving some memories.” More heat floods my face. Apparently, along with increased horniness, pregnancy is giving me an increased loss of filter. Hunter’s face takes on a wicked smirk. Or on second thought, maybe it’s him.
“Ah. Well, I could always help you sit on the counter too,” he says, his voice teasing now he knows I’m not in mortal peril. His gaze follows mine to the part of the counter where he pressed between my legs and ...
“So, what do we have for breakfast?” I say, clapping my hands and walking to the counter to break the spell. I know I’m talking too loudly, but Hunter goes with it, joining me.
“I prepped a few things at Hayden’s last night. Like I said, I wanted to have options depending on how you were feeling. And I figured whatever we didn’t use now, you could use later this week.”
A warmth spreads from the center of my chest, completely unrelated to my lady parts this time. How long has it been since anyone has done anything to take care of me ? Hunter looks at me expectantly as he explains the different options, his face light and enthusiastic. Okay, maybe his caretaking is doing a little something to my bits, but that’s a bonus.
“All of that sounds delicious,” I say, not entirely sure I could repeat anything he listed if he tested me. “Yesterday was a little rough in the sickness department, but this morning is better. Maybe nothing too heavy or greasy?”
“The frittata, basically a fancy scramble, yogurt, and fruit salad it is.” He heads to my cupboards and seems to find the dish he’s looking for on the first try. He continues his preparation while I stand there, entranced.
“So, other than the sickness yesterday, how’s the rest of your weekend been?”
“Uh, it’s been okay. I worked for most of the day yesterday anyway, so I kept close to the toilet.”
“Is that something you do a lot? Work on weekends?” He opens the oven door as he asks, frittata plate in hand, and stops short. “Uh, you don’t cook much do you?”
I look in the oven to see the pots and pans I shoved in there while I unpacked and never took back out.
“Oh, uh, not too much. I meant to install one of those pot rack hangy-things but never got around to it. At least putting off that task didn’t result in a life-changing event.” I joke, embarrassed I forgot about my oven storage habits.
“Hmm,” is all Hunter says as he removes the pots to the top of the stove and slides the frittata in.
“But to answer your question, no, I don’t typically work this much on weekends. My weekdays can be long and hectic, but the weekend meteorologist typically covers holidays too. My boss pitched me an opportunity for an extra side gig they want to start. I’m going in to meet him this afternoon to talk more about it and needed to be prepared.”
“Hmm,” Hunter says again, then pushing a button on the oven until it beeps. He turns so his back is resting against the sink, his arms crossed. “I planned to wait until we were eating to launch into this, but you’ve added to my—we have some time until the frittata is ready. Can we sit?”
I glance at the small table behind me, covered with several weeks’ worth of mail and outerwear. “Yeah, sure. Maybe on the couch?”
Hunter removes the towel from his shoulder, pulls two cans of something out of a bag, and follows me to the living room.
“So, now that you’ve seen the state of my kitchen and eating area, you’ve decided you don’t want to do this anymore?” My words have the cadence and tone of a joke, but the open pit in my stomach waits for him to confirm the worst and bolt.
“What? No. Definitely not. It sparked something . . . Let me start at the beginning.” He takes a deep breath. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s nervous today.
“While I was in school, I sort of stumbled into a meal-planning business. One of the guys I worked out with at the gym complained about being bored of chicken and rice all the time, but didn’t have time to do anything else. I had done some research on meals for myself and I thought they might work for him too, so I offered to share. He said if I put together meal ideas and a shopping list, he’d pay me a hundred bucks for two weeks.” He cracks open one of the cans of sparkling water he brought over and takes a sip before continuing.
“Word spread through the gym, and soon, I had a handful of guys wanting me to do the same. I told them I wasn’t a nutritionist, so couldn’t personalize much, but lean proteins, high fiber—these gym guys ate it up. Word spread to their barbers, sisters, fellow church-goers, whoever, and suddenly, I had interest for other types of meals too. Since it was all local at first, I spent time learning the layout of the main grocery stores in the area, organizing the lists by aisle and section. Hayden’s great with tech, so he helped me figure out how to create files people could upload into Instacart and DoorDash, get their groceries delivered.”
“Hunter, that is really cool,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“It is. I have a whole database of recipes now I’ve perfected—all stuff I’d be willing to cook and eat myself. My brothers, well, mostly Duncan, have been on me to see if I can scale it more. I haven’t been so sure. It’s a lot of time in front of a computer and not in a kitchen, like I imagined.”
I nod. “I can see how it could balloon out of control. What does Duncan do?”
Hunter laughs. “Honestly, he takes people’s money and makes them, and him, more money. At least that’s what it seems like.”
“Guess a business mindset is pretty engrained for him then.”
He nods. “It is. Except he offered me start-up funding as a graduation present. I turned him down, telling him I knew it was a gift, not an investment. He makes so much money because he’s successful, not because he gives handouts.”
“So, now what?” I’m not following where this is headed.
“Well, now, everything has changed.” His gaze falls to where my hand rests absentmindedly on my stomach, on our little Cumulus. “When I said I wanted to be involved, I meant it. That means, to me, I need to be here. In DC.”
“You want to move to DC?” I say, a bit dumbfounded. He’s right, it makes being involved a lot easier, but is a hell of a disruption to his life.
“I do. It’s a big meeting day for both of us—I met with Duncan this morning to present my business plan. Hayden helped me put it together over the last thirty-six hours. Duncan says he needs to think it over, but I know he only said that because I made a big fuss about being treated like a normal client. So, I’ll move here and hope I can launch in a bigger market, make it a full-time thing. Hayden’s going to help me with an app . . . I hope I can be here permanently in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I say, starting to panic. He’s known about the baby for less than two days and he’s ready to uproot everything. How can he be that sure?
“I know. I’ll try to make it less if I can. But I need to sell my bike, give notice at a few places I’ve been picking up shifts, see if I can get out of my lease ...” My hand on his arm causes him to trail off.
“Hunter, you don’t have to do this. Or at least take some time to think on it first. Moving here, giving up your connections in kitchens, going full-time with the business, is that really what you want?”
Hunter slides his arm through my grip, tangling his fingers with mine. “If life’s taught me anything consistently, it’s we don’t always get what we want. But moving here, being here for this baby, for you. If you’ll let me, it might be what I need.”
I stare at him in silence as he lets me soak it in, rubbing the back of my hand softly with his thumb.
“And a new dimension to the plan came to me after I got here this morning. What if I help you by cooking and meal planning for you? You said you don’t cook much, and I saw the stack of sweetgreen napkins on the counter and the yogurt bowl from South Block in the fridge. I know eating out isn’t cheap, especially getting fresh and natural foods.”
“I mean, I eat McDonald’s too, but those napkins don’t rat me out,” I grumble. He laughs, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
“I can supplement the Golden Arches, no problem. I originally planned to stay with Duncan or Hayden, but they’re not super close to here, so maybe I can find a room for rent somewhere, to save time traveling back and?—”
“Move in here.” There goes that lack of filter again. But as soon as I say it, the pit in my stomach calms.
“What?” he says. It’s his turn to look panicked.
“You’re doing all of this for me, for us”—I press on my stomach again—“the least I can do is house you. If we’re going to do this, let’s go all in.”
Hunter’s eyes sparkle with something a lot like excitement. “If you’re sure, that . . . that would be great. I want to be a part of everything you’ll have me for. Morning sickness, cravings, doctor’s appointments. All of it.”
The air around us grows heavy as our eyes stay connected. His declaration rings in my ears, the sincerity and enthusiasm bleeding through. When Hunter says he’s all in, it’s not something he means lightly. I can tell. He’ll be my person through this. I just need to let him.
The timer on the oven goes off, breaking the moment.
“I should get that,” he says, giving my hand one more squeeze. I watch him walk to the kitchen, the sounds of frittata being removed from the oven and plated reaches my ears. I imagine a future where the sounds of someone else navigating my space is a normalcy, not a novelty. Eventually, the coos and cries of a baby join the fray.
Slow your roll, Lewis. Nothing is guaranteed.
Hunter brings a plate heaping with breakfast, handing it to me, along with the fork and napkin. Taking a bite, a groan leaves me, putting the purest smile I’ve seen yet on Hunter’s face.
Guarantee or not, what will it hurt to enjoy the ride?