Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Michelle
Fourteen weeks pregnant
I t’s taken some getting used to—having Hunter in the apartment. One lesson we both learned early on is to invest in some robes. Towel-clad run-ins on back-to-back days left me draining my vibrator of power the second night, hoping the buzzing wouldn’t make it through the wall to Hunter’s room. The extra-long shower I heard him take the next morning let me know I might not be the only one suffering.
I know we need to discuss what we are to each other—and soon. But I don’t know what I want. Well, okay, equal parts of me want to climb him like a tree and maintain a functional co-parenting relationship with someone I’ve only known for a month. Those same parts of me disagree on whether those desires are mutually exclusive.
What I am sure of is Hunter is a fan-fucking-tastic cook and I’ve never eaten better in my life.
I’m climbing the stairs to my—our—unit on a Tuesday night after the type of very long day quickly becoming my norm. Today included my normal forecasting shift, along with publishing a blog post and video about the incredibly active week Tornado Alley has seen. No one in the country has been able to escape news of the devastation and the posts are already getting more traction than anything I’ve done so far. I’m glad I decided to ask forgiveness and not permission to include links to fundraising efforts for those impacted.
I push open the door and the smell of melted cheese smacks me in the face, making me groan and drop my bag on the spot.
“You’re back!” Hunter exclaims. He sounds genuinely happy to see me every time I walk through the door. He claims he leaves the apartment while I’m out, doing recon of grocery stores for the app or meeting with Hayden or Duncan about business stuff. I take a big sniff of whatever deliciousness he’s whipped up for today, guilt spreading through me even while my stomach growls.
“Food will be ready in three minutes.” It hasn’t gotten old yet how he’s able to time each recipe from my departure at the station.
I sit at the table, worried if I go to my room to change, I’ll end up on the bed and miss out on whatever smells so delicious. Regret fills me almost instantly when the waistband of my pants cuts into my stomach. My day-to-day clothes aren’t going to cut it much longer. One of the momfluencers I started following suggests using a hair tie looped through the buttonhole to give you another inch or so. I’ll have to try it tomorrow.
“Here we are,” Hunter says, setting a plate down in front of me, as well as one at his spot. His forearms are bare, hair mussed from the heat off the stove, and yet, the most alluring part is the tea towel draped over his shoulder. A different type of hunger fills me.
“What? You’re not off chicken, are you? I mean, it’s fine if you are, I can make something?—”
“No, no, it smells delicious.” I cut him off, guilt doubling at the thought he’s doubting his food while I drool over the man presenting it.
Do I have a right to drool over him? I don’t even know.
Hunter is still standing there, looking at me expectantly. Shit. “Oh, you know, the novelty of actually eating at the table, with placemats and everything.” He smiles, heading to the stove, checking the burners are off. He leaves the towel behind and sits next to me.
“I did find these placemats in my room, you know. So, you either bought them, were gifted them, or were reverse robbed.” Hunter’s staying in the second, much smaller bedroom. I had done some consolidating when we thought Jax would be staying here for more than one night, but who knows what other treasures he might find. The room will eventually become the nursery, but we’ll cross that bridge when the water gets high enough.
“My money’s on reverse robbed,” I say, before taking the first bite of food and letting out a moan I have no chance of containing.
Hunter’s eyes darken slightly, but his tone is light. “You think it’s good now, but you’re missing out on how this wine compliments the sauce.” He pours himself a glass of wine while I look sadly at my water glass.
“That’s just mean. It’s payback for the moan, isn’t it?”
He winks in return and then digs in himself. We fall into a comfortable silence, though my mind races. Why can we joke so easily, but we can’t talk about what we are to each other?
“So, I had something I wanted to ask you about,” Hunter says, setting his fork down.
Is he a mind reader? I mirror him, keeping my hands empty. “Sure, what’s up?”
“So, my parents, well, my dad and stepmom, Margaret, are wanting to visit all of us here in DC. They were thinking of visiting over the 4th of July.”
So, not a discussion about us. Got it .
“That’s nice—you all have made it easy on them congregating in the same place.”
Hunter laughs. “That’s what Margaret said. They also . . . they were hoping to have a chance to meet you. I know it’s less than two weeks away, but I’d like for them to meet you too.”
My heart warms at knowing I’m not some secret Hunter is trying to keep hidden. I didn’t think shame matched his style, but confirmation is comforting. “So, they know about all the reasons you made the move?” I wondered what he told them when he announced his move, but knowing how much I hate talking about my relationship with my mom, I didn’t want to pry.
“Yeah, I didn’t want to lie to them. They took it well. I found out my mom and dad got married a week after finding out she was pregnant with Duncan. They had been together for a while by then, so different, but he got it.”
I nod, piecing together bit by bit Hunter’s family dynamic.
“It would be great to meet them. I found out today my boss got me access to watch the fireworks from the Post Office Tower for my post on how the weather impacts viewing fireworks. He mentioned I could bring a person or two . . . I’m not sure I could get the okay for everyone, but the four of us seems likely. Would they like that?”
The only word to describe Hunter’s expression is beaming. “That would be amazing, Mich. Would your mom want to come too?”
Hunter’s face falls, matching the shuttering I know my expression just did.
“Sorry . . . do you not ...” He trails off, not knowing the end of his sentence.
I take a deep breath in. “I think I told you, my mom and I have a difficult relationship. Several therapists have helped me to recognize she sought validation from men and nowhere else, leading to some questionable parenting decisions, and some world views she’s tried to pass on to me about men and their reliability. It is hard to be around her.”
Hunter reaches out and squeezes my hand before returning it to his side of the table. I wish his reassuring warmth lasted longer.
“So, I’m guessing she doesn’t know about the pregnancy.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Sorry. No, she doesn’t. And it’s not because I’m ashamed of you, or us, or our situation. But I can hear everything she would say about you, about us, and about our situation. And I don’t need that right now. I know I’ll have to tell her eventually, but not now.” I let out a quivering breath, pieces of hair framing my face fluttering upward with the force.
“I got it. Well, if you need me there when you do tell her, say the word. How about some ice cream for dessert?” He stands up, clearing our dishes. I marvel at yet another instance where Hunter read the situation perfectly—I desperately needed a subject change and ice cream is one of my favorite methods of self-soothing.
“That sounds great. Are you going to let me do the dishes tonight?” I ask. I’ve always heard if you cook, you don’t clean, which seems fair. But so far, Hunter has insisted on taking up both roles.
“Did you post more than one thing on the blog today?” he asks, depositing a bowl of chocolate peanut butter in front of me.
“Yes ...” I say, scooping a huge bite into my mouth, brain freeze be damned.
“Then you worked harder than I did. I’ve got this.”
I suspect he would have claimed I worked harder than he did if all I accomplished in a day is getting out of bed to grab a new book from the bookshelf. I’ll have to find something I can do for him soon, but I don’t have it in me to argue tonight. I’m exhausted.
“Oh, one of the grocery stores I went to today had that bubble bath you like on sale, so I grabbed a bottle. I saw you were running low. Feel free to leave your bowl on the table when you’re done and go relax.”
“You mean the bubble bath I’ve only ever found at Ulta and nowhere else and rarely goes on sale?” I lift an eyebrow in his direction as I take the last bite of ice cream.
He turns around, a smirk on his face. “Yup, that bubble bath. Must have been an ordering mistake.”
I shake my head at him, knowing we both know he’s lying. “Well, thank you. That’s very thoughtful. A bubble bath does sound perfect.” Especially if I sneak my waterproof bullet vibrator into the bathroom in my robe pocket. Running water should cover the vibrations. Turns out acts of service are just as potent with these pregnancy hormones as towel-clad run-ins. We learn new things every day.