Chapter 33
DEXTER
“This was so good.” She puts the fork and knife on the plate, leaning back in her seat. “Thanks for that.”
“Anytime.” I push to my feet and hold out my hand. “Come on.”
“Where to?”
“You get naked. I run us a bath. Deal?”
Her mouth opens.
“Bath, I said. Not sex,” I clarify.
Her cheeks flush, that same flush I see when we are rolling around in bed. “A bath’s all I need right now.”
I head to the bathroom and toss in the cherry bath salts. Her favorite. My favorite. She’s still determined to leave. Doesn’t change a thing, I’m not discouraged.
Her fingers shake a little when she takes my hand and steps in after me. She sinks against my chest, and warm water closes around us. My eyes close for a moment. Ahh. There we go. I wrap my arms around her.
“How was your day?” she whispers.
“Better now. You?”
“Stomach’s okay. A bit tired.”
“You think of any names yet?”
“She’s barely the size of a grain of rice, Dexter.”
“It doesn’t hurt to plan. Knowing you as well as I think I do, you’ll wait until you’re in the delivery room to come up with a name. Wait—” I stop mid-thought. “Did you say she?”
“It’s going to be a girl.”
“It’s a boy.”
“Girls run in my family.”
“Men run in mine.” I think about my dad, his brothers, and the cousins, circling her belly with gentle strokes. “Dad was the oldest of five siblings. All men. You blinked, and there were suddenly more of us. We owned more double strollers than single ones. You’re outnumbered, Holly.”
Dad would have loved this.
The idea of a house filling up again. He always said the house only felt right when it was full.
My dad had liked Holly from the start. When he heard her father had left, he started sending me off when I went to see Holly with extra whoopie pies. Saved me from helping myself. He even eased up on the yelling when I came home late.
Holly leans back against me, her fingers threading through mine, holding on, not letting go.
Hardly a day passes that I don’t think of Dad.
One of my favorite memories was when he and Uncle Joe taught me to drive in a beat-up red Chevy truck.
The clutch was stiff as hell, and changing gears nearly snapped my wrist, but I got the hang of it eventually.
I’ll never forget the way Dad slapped my back and grinned.
“He’s a Thorne,” he said, proud as hell.
And Uncle Joe, he just nodded like it was obvious.
Drunk Joe, that’s what everybody called him. Because, well, he earned it.
That same day, Dad dropped a hundred-dollar bill when we parked.
I caught sight of it near the curb, but Joe was faster.
He scooped it up and slipped it into his pocket, probably not realizing it was Dad’s.
Dad saw it from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say a word.
He knew Joe wasn’t a bad guy, just in a rough patch.
Later, when I asked why he didn’t call him out, Dad said, “That money had Joe’s name on it.
” And sure enough, Joe paid it back when he got on his feet again.
I tighten my arm around Holly. She knew my father. Dad wasn’t a pushover, he just knew when to fight and when to give grace. He was a contract negotiator for a large firm. Still the smartest one I know.
He taught me to read the room, not the script, to be demanding but fair, to look for intent. For heart. To back down from the battles that didn’t matter, and show up swinging for the ones that did. He hammered three lessons into me.
“Stand your ground, son.”
That was always first. Don’t hand your dignity over to anyone. Not for free, not ever.
“Lift people up, my boy.”
He drilled that one in right after. You see someone on the ground, you get them back on their feet.
Simple. Didn’t matter if it was a stranger stuck on the side of the road or a kid getting crushed by the world too soon.
Mom died when I was still little. It was unexpected.
I was old enough to remember her. Dad went later. Didn’t matter that I was much older.
After you lose one parent, the other can never live long enough.
The only photo I have of Mom is their wedding picture, in black and white. My dad and her, heads tipped together, glasses of champagne in their hands. She’s looking down at the glass through her long lashes, and he’s looking at her with a tenderness I never saw from him again.
On the back of the photograph, Mom had written:
How brave it is to love at all,
when you might lose everything.
I didn’t understand it when I was young.
The wedding band on his hand, he never took it off. Not one day.
You pour everything into someone, and then they’re gone. That leaves a mark. After that, you think twice before doing it again. You don’t risk it unless it’s worth the fall.
And Dad must have thought she was.
The last lesson, he pushed hardest.
“A man doesn’t quit, my son. Not when it counts. You put everything on the line.”
That one usually came when he was dripping sweat, knuckles busted from work, and I was ready to toss in the towel.
He never let me. He’d drive those words straight into my chest until they hurt worse than the job: When it gets tough, when it costs you, that’s when you stay.
You don’t half-ass it. You don’t hedge. You go all in and you finish what you started.
That’s the moment you push through. There’s no better high. That’s when you fly.
Three lessons, branded so deep I don’t have to think to hear them.
Everything that matters, I learned from my dad.
Years later, when time finally caught up with him, I didn’t know how to deal.
Holly did. She was there, every day. That was right after her marriage ended, after she kicked him out.
We rode for hours on my BMW GS, not talking much, just riding miles and miles, day after day.
She hates biking, says it makes her butt hurt.
That time I grieved my father’s death, she never complained, not once.
You don’t risk a friendship like that.
“So, I’ve been making a list,” Holly says brightly, and I’m back in the fogged-up bathroom. I don’t even realize I’ve locked my arms around her until I feel how tight I’m holding on.
“An outrageously long list,” she adds. “I may have gotten carried away.”
I ease up, pull a bit back, and my stubble scrapes where it was pressed against her soft cheek. The water is still warm. “That’s never good.”
“I’m serious, Dexter. You’ll be impressed. And… you’ll be buying her first sparkly shoes. Because it is a girl, I can feel it.” She nudges me, voice too happy to be serious. “Meaning, I’ll be needing a monthly allowance once I’m in London. For, you know, vital baby girl supplies.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“You know. Shoes. Handbags. An apple juice rack. A tiara. Matching silk pajamas. And maybe a pony. For the baby, obviously.”
“Approved.”
She squints. “And you need to put our child’s name on your life insurance.”
“Already did.”
Her mouth falls open. “Dexter! You’re no fun. You were supposed to argue!”
I can’t help it, I laugh. That’s the point—making me laugh. She felt me drift and pulled me out of it. I have no idea how she gets through. How she can bring me back from places no one else ever could.
I settle back against the tub. “You forgot the yacht,” I rumble.
“Hi.” Her eyes sparkle. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
She shifts as she grabs the washcloth, water sliding over her chest, and glances down at herself. Her laugh softens into a sigh. “They’re changing. You noticed, right?”
She wiggles a little in my arms, getting comfortable against me. Against my cock.
“I noticed.”
Of course, my mind goes there. Straight there. I’ve been half-hard since we climbed in, and it doesn’t take much to get my full attention.
I grit my teeth. I won’t touch her.
“Don’t look so pleased. This is only temporary. Baby hormones.” She lathers the washcloth with soap in repetitive strokes, the motion carrying through her wrists, her arms, her hips. Fuck me. “And possibly all the chocolate.”
She runs the washcloth over her legs, rubbing against me without meaning to, or maybe very much meaning to. Either way, I’m barely listening. All I see are her curves breaking the surface, peaks teasing out of the water as she laughs.
“Anyway, limited-time offer.” She rubs and rubs and rubs.
This girl.
Blood rushes and rushes and rushes.
I try to stay focused. “I’ll fund the chocolate aisle if that’s what it takes. And I’ll need daily updates. Hands-on research. No excuses.”
“You sound far too happy about that.”
Her laugh catches when my hands, barely touching, follow the rise and dip of her. It’s the kind of laugh that strips a man of every intention he walked in with. “I want more pictures of you. Your belly, your breasts. Everything,” I tell her, voice low. “We should capture this.”
“Maybe. Check back when I’m rounder. Then we’ll see.” Her mouth curves, and the way she moves makes it clear she’s seeking—no, inviting—friction. How had I never noticed how soft her skin was? Like silk?
“I’m supposed to be winding down,” she says hoarsely, “not amping up.”
I tip my head, savoring the moment. “Do you want me to touch you? Right here?” My hand drifts between her thighs, and hovers.
The washcloth slides from her grip. “Dexter… this is a terrible idea…” Her voice is breathless and husky.
“Let me make it fucking worse,” I growl.
It’s that soft gasp she lets out that gives her away every time.
“Beg nicer.”
“Please. Please continue.”
So yeah. Just like that. Rules, out the window.
“I’ll think about it,” I tease, dragging it out. My finger glides across her skin, tracing soft curves and heat, everywhere except where she’s aching for it most. Just a taste, just enough to make her aware of what I’m doing. And exactly aware of what I’m not.
I feel the change in her immediately. The way she gives up trying to be composed.
She whimpers. It’s a warning and request all at once.
“Not sure that counts as begging,” I murmur against her ear.
“Please. Don’t do this to me. Just… touch me.”