CHAPTER 8 #2
The only thing I can do is nod and climb out of the car. After standing, I take a moment and rub my hand over my belly. “I think we might be home, peanut,” I whisper.
Bridger’s eyes are soft when he steps up next to me and places his hand at the small of my back.
My entire face heats up from embarrassment.
I’ve taken to talking to my baby when I’m alone.
Not only have I read about it helping with bonding by hearing your voice, but it’s become a huge comfort to me as well.
Going through this alone, so far, has taken its toll on me and my mental wellbeing.
Not like it was stellar before, considering my parents, but talking to my little peanut has kept me grounded and focused when it would have been all too easy to spiral.
“You are home.” His hand comes down to hover over my belly like he’s asking permission.
It’s sweet and makes me melt for this man who, clearly, doesn’t let his emotions out to play very often.
I take his hand and put it on my baby bump and watch in fascination as his shoulders relax.
There’s reverence in his tone, “Both of you.”
I quickly reach up and wipe away the few tears that have fallen. “Sorry,” I sniffle, “today has been a lot.”
“I think tonight calls for relaxing, take-out of whatever you’re craving, and a foot rub.”
There’s a little twinkle in Bridger’s eyes as he lays out the perfect fucking evening. I let out a groan of approval that has the corners of his mouth tipping up. It’s pretty damn close to a smile and makes me feel victorious in a way that is intoxicating.
The moment he unlocks the front door, and I step inside, the fear and chaos of the day lessens. The baby moves and I press my hand to my bump. It’s almost as if my little peanut approves of being here, at least it’s what I’m going to take it as.
“Come on, Sweetheart, let me give you a tour,” Bridger gently prods me.
All I can do is nod and allow him to lead me around.
The kitchen is a dream. It’s all black and white with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances.
I could see myself cooking in this kitchen.
The island is perfect for decorating cookies or doing a school project.
I can almost see the fridge covered in art filled with colorful squiggles or stick figure families.
Bridger leads back to the living room where there’s a huge black sectional that I’m not sure I could get out of if I were to crawl in too deeply. The coffee table has a glass top which I’m already side eyeing. There’s no way he’s ever thought about babyproofing this place.
Even though the walls are all white, there is enough art hanging around so that it doesn’t feel overly stark. I can’t tear my eyes away from one painting of an angel ascending into sunset lit clouds while darkness wraps around her ankles and tries to pull her back down.
Without realizing it, I step away from Bridger and stare at the painting. It’s huge, but it also feels intimate in a strange way.
“This is beautiful. Who’s the artist?”
I feel Bridger step up next to me, but I can’t look away from the art. Silence stretches between us, and I glance toward him to find him rubbing the back of his neck.
“I painted it,” he almost sounds embarrassed.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, my head whipping back and forth between the artwork and Bridger. “You painted this?”
“I’m not sure why you sound so surprised, tattooing is art with skin as the canvas,” he grumbles.
I wrap my hands around his bicep and lean into him, the contact sending a jolt through me and I’m instantly transported back to the night we spent together.
I’m not even sure how many times I’ve thought about that night since I walked out of the hotel room.
Even though I tried to convince myself the chemistry between us was all in my head, the moment I touch him I know it’s real.
But things are so much more complicated now.
“I figured you did the art on the wall in the space where you were sitting earlier and was blown away.” I shake my head and swallow hard. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well and I’m afraid I’m going to keep putting my foot in my mouth.”
He reaches over and brushes some of my hair back off my shoulder, his brown eyes studying my face. “It’s okay, Avery. I realize our worlds are pretty far apart.”
I squeeze his arm and whisper, “This painting should be in a museum. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I gush, hoping I won’t offend him, and he can feel my sincerity.
“Thanks, Sweetheart,” he whispers.
This time, I don’t let it go and tease him, “Are you blushing?”
He scoffs, but now part of his neck is red and the tops of his ears. I make a humming sound, but don’t say anything else even though I’m dying to.
“Come on,” he grunts, his hand finding mine. Our fingers entwine like it’s natural. When he looks down at our hands, I can see the surprise in his eyes.
It’s surprising to me too. Holding hands isn’t really something I do. Or public displays of affection. I never felt the need when I was dating someone in college. Honestly, I shied away from it.
But, somehow, holding Bridger’s hand feels right.
He shows me the rest of the house, including the sunroom which he’s turned into a studio and two guest rooms. Then there is the primary bedroom with the spa-like bathroom which contains my dream shower.
When he opens the guest room closest to the master, Bridger mentions, “I was thinking we can turn this room into the nursery.”
With the sunlight streaming through the windows, I can see myself in a glider with our baby in my arms. Warmth fills my chest; this room feels right.
“I think this will be perfect,” my words are thick with emotion.
Today has been too much, but here’s Bridger opening up his home to me and our child.
I turn toward the man quickly and he eyes me cautiously. “Why aren’t you freaking out more? Shouldn’t you be yelling at me or something?”
My father’s angry words echo through my head and not just the ones from today. I realize Bridger is not my father, but shouldn’t this whole thing be a problem? Especially for a man who never wanted a relationship or kids?
“I’m not much of a yeller,” he admits and turns toward me.
His brown eyes bore into mine. “I’m also not going to berate and lay into the woman who is carrying my child.
Will that mean I’ll never fuck up? Not even a little bit; I’m sure I will.
But this?” He motions between us. “Surprisingly, I’m not finding this difficult to wrap my brain around. ”
I blink at him a few times. “Wrap your brain around what?”
“You’re here. You’re pregnant. The baby is mine. Your parents, especially your father, suck. You needed an out today and you came to me. I have room here and,” he sighs, “even though I should want to run and be pissed about it all, that’s not what I’m feeling.”
As much as I want to look away from the intensity of his gaze, I can’t. “What are you feeling?”
Bridger’s large hand comes up and cups my cheek. “I don’t want to run. I’m scared about all of it, but I’m also so fucking relieved you came to me when you didn’t know where else to go; that took a lot of guts.”
His words wash over me and leave me feeling secure in a way I wasn’t expecting. Bridger’s eyes dart down and my lips part. I remember the way his lips against mine felt that night. My body starts to buzz and lust pools in my belly.
I want him but jumping him is probably a horrible idea. Talk about complicating things.
When he starts to lean toward me, I find myself matching his movements. A loud knock comes from the front door, and I yelp as I jerk back from him. His hands shoot out and he steadies me before he growls over his shoulder.
“It’s probably Amelia,” he grunts and leads me away from the room that will become our baby’s nursery. And I find that I have more questions than answers after our little talk.
Top one on my list? Who the hell is Amelia?