Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Jake
I rewrite for the third time the text I’m about to send, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Jake
I got something for the baby. Can I bring it over?
It’s Thursday night. I haven’t seen Natalie since the doctor appointment, since the ultrasound, since we watched that tiny body wiggle on the screen and listened to the heartbeat fill the room. A week is not actually that long, but it feels like I have been stuck in a holding pattern for months.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it and her response comes faster than I expect.
Natalie
You don’t have to buy things yet.
Jake
Too late.
I grin at my phone while she types. The dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Natalie
Fine. Come over. But if you bought something ridiculous, I’m returning it.
Jake
See you in 20.
I grab my keys and head out to the garage, where the unassembled crib sits in the back of my SUV next to a bag from the pharmacy.
The crib is top rated, convertible, all the safety features.
The kind of thing you end up buying after two hours of reading reviews you did not know you cared about until you suddenly do.
I already built the one for my house last night, so at least I know what I’m doing.
Traffic is light for a Thursday, so it only takes fifteen minutes. I haul the flat-packed crib box up the walk, and before I can knock, the door swings open. Every thought in my head flatlines.
She’s wearing my shirt. The gray one she took from my bedroom that night. It’s faded and soft-looking, hanging off one shoulder, paired with shorts that show off her long, tanned legs. Her hair is down, loose waves falling past her shoulders, and her skin looks like it’s glowing in the moonlight.
She’s stunning. I’m staring. I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop. All I can think about is how badly I want to peel that shirt off her. How easy it would be to step inside, close the door behind me, and kiss her until neither of us can remember why we’re supposed to be keeping our distance.
I’m in so much trouble with this woman.
“You bought a crib.” Her voice is flat, but her eyes give her away. There’s amusement there, threaded through the disbelief.
I force myself to focus. “I bought a crib,” I confirm, clearing my throat.
“Jake, I’m barely in the second trimester.”
“Never too early to prepare.”
She steps aside to let me in, shaking her head. “You’re insane.”
“Practical,” I correct, maneuvering the box through the doorway without taking out a plant in the process. “Where do you want it?”
She pauses, and looks unsure. “I guess the guest room?” She says it like she is trying the words on. “I haven’t really thought about this yet. Where things are going to go.”
“That’s okay. We have time to figure it out.”
She gestures down the hall. “Second door on the right.”
I carry the box through the living room, past the cozy couch and the built-ins packed with novels and scripts, past a coffee table littered with notebooks and highlighters.
The guest room is small but bright, hardwood floors and a window that looks out over the side yard. There is a futon, a small desk buried under notebooks and pens, and several stacks of books that look like they are mid-organization.
“When you are ready, I can help you move things around,” I say, setting the box down. “I can put it next to the futon for now.”
She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe what?”
“You bought me a crib.”
“Technically it’s for the baby,” I say. “And yeah, I bought one for my place too. I put it together last night, so this one should go pretty quick.”
Something flickers across her face. “You already have a nursery?”
“Working on it.” I pull out my phone and swipe to the picture. “This is what it looks like.”
She studies the photo, quiet for a moment. I try not to read too much into it, but there is something careful about the way she looks at the screen, like she is seeing more than just wood and rails.
“I’m going to make some tea,” she says. “You want some?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
She disappears down the hall, and I hear cupboards opening, the clink of a mug, the soft whistle of the kettle. I open the box and start laying out all the pieces on the floor, grouping parts together, lining up screws. By the time she returns, I already have the base of the crib started.
She hands me a cup of tea and drops onto the futon, one leg tucked under her. For the next twenty minutes I work while she watches. I can feel her eyes on me in that way you always can when someone is paying quiet attention. I glance over. She is holding her mug with both hands, gaze thoughtful.
“How’s work?” she asks, like the question has been hovering for a while. “My dad. Everything. Did he freak out?”
“About the baby?” I tighten a bolt and sit back on my heels. “He emailed me first thing that Monday after and asked me to come to his office.”
Her eyes widen. “That sounds ominous.”
“It felt ominous,” I admit. “But he was actually great. He asked if I planned to be involved, and when I said yes, he looked relieved, I think.”
Her throat works like she has to swallow that down. “He told me he liked you,” she says quietly. “When I told him you were the father. Said you were one of his best.”
The statement hits somewhere deep. I clear my throat and pick the wrench back up. “That means a lot.”
The room starts to feel hotter as I work, or maybe it’s just the combination of physical effort and the way she keeps watching me. I set the wrench down and pull my button-down off, leaving me in my white T-shirt.
When I straighten, I catch her looking. Her eyes track my arms, then jump to my face when she realizes I noticed. A flush creeps up her neck.
I feel it. Whatever lit up between us that night. And right now, in this little room full of crib parts, it feels like it’s still there, glowing under the surface.
I lock the last piece into place and tighten the final screw.
“There,” I say, straightening up. “It looks good, right?”
“Yeah.” She unfolds from the futon and walks over, stopping beside me at the foot of the crib. “It’s perfect,” she says softly.
We’re standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something citrusy and fresh. Close enough that when I glance over, I can see where my shirt has slipped further off her shoulder, exposing the slope of her chest.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how good she looks in my clothes. How her breasts have gotten fuller, straining against the soft fabric in a way that’s making it impossible to think straight. But I am. I’m thinking about all of it.
She shifts her weight, and I catch her eyes tracking across my chest, lingering on my arms. It’s not the first time today. She’s been watching me work for the last twenty minutes, and every time I’ve glanced over, her gaze has been somewhere it shouldn’t be if we’re really just co-parents.
The thing is, I haven’t touched her in three months. And none of this has faded. Not the attraction. Not the pull. If anything, it’s gotten worse. More intense. Like spending time together is only making it harder to ignore what’s still burning between us.
“I think I need more tea,” she says suddenly, her voice a little too bright. “You want a refill?”
She’s already moving toward the door before I can answer, putting distance between us like she needs the space to breathe.
I hear her in the kitchen, the sound of the kettle refilling, cupboards opening and closing. I crouch down and start gathering the leftover nuts and bolts, tossing them back into the plastic bag, breaking down the box.
When she comes back, she pauses in the doorway, watching me clean up the mess. She sets the mugs down on the windowsill. “Oh, I can clean that up.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, but she’s already moving toward me.
I stand just as she drops to her knees in front of me to reach for a stray screw. The position is awkward and charged all at once. She’s kneeling right there, eye level with my crotch, and when she looks up at me, it takes every shred of restraint to keep my dick in check.
I watch her throat work as she swallows and her lips part slightly. I drop back down on my knees to help her, our faces suddenly close, her eyes wide.
“I can help,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She doesn’t move. Just stares at my mouth like she’s forgotten how to speak. “Okay,” she whispers.
Then her hand lifts, fingertips brushing the small scar near my eyebrow. The touch is feather-light, tentative, and my eyes close instinctively. When I open them, she’s still looking at me, her hand trembling slightly against my skin.
I lean in slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind, and brush my lips against hers. Testing. Soft at first, letting her respond. She melts into me with a sound that goes straight to my cock.
I deepen the kiss, and her hands twist in my shirt, tugging me closer, pulling me fully into her. Every inch of her is heat, every gasp, every tiny shift of her body against mine sending fire straight through me.
I stand, pulling her up with me, and walk her backward until her back hits the wall. She gasps against my mouth, and I hold her there, letting the kiss stretch, letting her feel what she does to me, giving her every chance to slow things down.
“Bedroom,” she breathes against my jaw.
I scoop her up, and her legs lock around my waist like this is muscle memory. She kisses along my neck as I carry her down the hall, and it takes every ounce of coordination I can summon not to run us into a wall.
Her bedroom is cozy and dark. Deep purple walls, plants on every surface, pools of warm light from lamps instead of the overhead fixture. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, like she left in a hurry this morning.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “We don’t have to—”
“I’m sure.” She pulls back to look at me. “Are you?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I lay her down, and she sits up right away, pulling my T-shirt over her head. Fuck. No bra. Just skin and that delicate tattoo along her ribs.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Can you blame me?”
She gestures at my shirt with a wave of her hand. “Off.”
I strip my shirt in one motion and toss it aside. Her hands are on me immediately, fingers tracing across my chest, down my stomach, like she is reacquainting herself with every line.
“I forgot how amazing your body is,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t forget anything about you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her gaze flickers up, something unguarded passing through it, then she drags me down into another kiss, and any chance for deeper conversation goes out the window.
My hands find the waistband of her leggings. “Okay?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I slide them and her panties down together, and she lifts her hips to help, all business, no shyness. When she is naked beneath me, heat floods my system like a shock.
I reach for my belt, then freeze. “I don’t have a condom.”
She lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
“Right,” I say. “I should still say I got tested after July. I’m clean.”
“Me too. And there hasn’t been anyone else. Since you.”
Is it wrong that I love that fact? I look down at her, and there’s something in her expression I haven’t seen before. A softness. A flicker of vulnerability that makes my breath catch.
“Same,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “No one else.”
Her eyes search mine for a long moment, and I swear I can see her walls wobbling. Not falling, but shifting. Like maybe she’s starting to believe this could be more than she’s letting herself admit.
“Okay then,” she says. She plants her palms on my shoulders and tries to guide me down to the bed. “Lie back.”
“Wait, I want to taste you first. Savor this gorgeous body.”
She gives me sly smile, and I love that she hasn’t lost her edge either. “Next time. I’m too horny right now. Every time your skin brushes mine I feel like I’m going to explode.”
I let go and fall back on the bed. She swings a leg over my hips, settling on top of me like she has been waiting for this since the second we walked into the room. Her hands slide along my sides as she leans down to kiss me, then she sits up, reaches between us, and wraps her fingers around me.
“Natalie,” I grit out, hands locking on her hips.
She lifts herself, guides me to her, and sinks down in one slow, deliberate motion.
My vision actually blanks for a second.
She closes her eyes, head tipping back, a quiet moan escapes her. I force my hands to stay on her hips instead of dragging her down faster, letting her set the pace.
“Look at me,” I say, voice rough.
Her eyes open, and something in my chest pulls tight.
She starts to move, rocking against me, finding a rhythm that is all urgency and no hesitation. Her hands brace on my chest for leverage, and it is messy and hot and real in a way that feels like that first night.
“God, Jake,” she breathes.
My fingers flex on her hips and I thrust up into her, matching her tempo. The room fills with the sounds of us, the creak of the bed, the catch of her breath every time she grinds down just right. I slide one hand between us, finding her clit, and the way she reacts nearly undoes me on the spot.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Right there.”
“Take what you need,” I say.
She rides me harder, chasing what she wants, and it takes everything I have to hold my own orgasm back. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her movements start to stutter, and I feel the shift in her body right before she shatters around me.
“Oh fuck, Jake,” she cries out, and then she is gone, coming apart above me, body tightening, head thrown back.
The sight and feel of it rip me open. I drive up into her one last time and follow her over, every muscle locking as I spill inside her.
We just stay there, connected and lost in the moment, both of us breathing like we ran a race, her head pressed to my chest, my hands smoothing down her back as if that might slow my heartbeat.
The corner of her mouth curves in the faintest, sweetest smile.
It’s there for just a heartbeat, but I catch it.
Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. I can feel the tension starting to creep back into her muscles and the wall slides back into place.
She finally exhales against my shoulder, her voice muffled. “This can’t happen again.”
The words land like a bucket of cold water, but she doesn’t move. Her body is still wrapped around mine. My hand is still on her spine.
I swallow and try to keep my tone even. “Okay.”
“What just happened doesn’t change anything. It’s just—I don’t do relationships,” she says, like it’s her mantra.
I want to tell her it does change things. It makes me want her even more. But I keep my hand on her back, keep my voice steady, and give her what she needs to hear.
“Okay.”