Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
Natalie
He’s standing on my porch in athletic shorts and a fitted gray T-shirt, holding a bag from Mendocino Farms.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly looking almost uncertain. “I was at the gym near here and thought I’d take a chance you’d be home.”
My stomach does a stupid flip. He looks good. Too good. All lean muscle and easy smile and those gorgeous eyes.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, because letting him see the effect he has on me feels dangerous.
“Sandwich. That turkey cranberry one with the Brie. And the butternut squash soup.”
I step aside. “Come in.”
He follows me to the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter while I grab bowls. The soup smells incredible, all roasted and creamy, and suddenly I’m starving even though I just inhaled cake.
How am I supposed to guard myself against this? Against a man who shows up at my door with exactly what I’m craving before I even know I’m craving it? Who looks like that in a gray T-shirt that clings to every muscle he’s earned at that boxing gym? It’s not fair.
“How was your writers’ group?” he asks, sliding onto one of my counter stools like he’s done it a hundred times.
Even that. The easy way he fits into my space, into my life, like he belongs here. I’m in so much trouble.
“Good. They threw me a surprise celebration. Wren brought a cake.”
“That’s nice.”
I hand him a spoon. “They’ve been reading my pages for at least five years. I wouldn’t have sold Spellbound without them.”
“Tell me about them.”
So I do. Jake listens intently, asking questions, laughing in the right places. He has this way of listening that makes you feel like the only person in the room.
“They sound great,” he says. “I’d love to meet them sometime.”
The comment’s casual, but it lands heavy. Meeting my friends feels like a capital-R Relationship step. A step we’re definitely not taking.
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal, and take a bite of soup.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then he asks about my week, and I tell him about the yoga class where someone fell asleep in savasana and started snoring.
“That happened to me once,” he admits.
“In yoga?”
“The gym. I was so exhausted after a workout I lay down on the mat and totally passed out. Wyatt had to wake me up.”
I laugh, trying to picture it. Jake always seems so put together, so in control. The image of him drooling on a gym mat is unreasonably endearing.
“What?” he asks, grinning.
“Nothing. You’re just…not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know. More buttoned-up, I guess. You’re this successful attorney, you work for my dad, you drive a nice car and live in the hills.”
“And?”
“And you’re kind of a dork.”
He laughs. “Guilty. I make dad jokes even though I’m not a dad yet. I can’t watch horror movies because I get too invested in the characters. And I definitely cried at the end of Toy Story 3.”
“Everyone cried at the end of Toy Story 3.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m a writer. I don’t have feelings, I just observe them in others.”
“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”
He’s smiling at me, and I can feel the ground start to tilt under my feet.
I should send him home. That’s the smart thing to do. The safe thing. Every time he’s here, every conversation we have that isn’t about the baby, I can feel myself getting attached. And attachment leads to hope, and hope leads to heartbreak.
But I don’t want him to leave.
The realization hits me hard. I like having him here. I like the way he makes me laugh. The way he listens like what I’m saying actually matters. The way being around him feels easy in a way nothing else in my life does right now.
I’m supposed to be keeping my distance.
Instead, I stand abruptly, grabbing our empty bowls, and hear myself say, “Want to watch something?”
His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Sure.”
There’s something in his expression that warms my heart. Like he wasn’t expecting me to ask. Like maybe he thought I’d usher him out the second we finished eating. And maybe I should have. But I don’t.
We migrate to the couch, and I pull up FlixPix, not really caring what I click. I land on some action movie I’ve seen before. Plenty of explosions, zero emotional investment. Perfect.
Jake settles beside me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that if I shifted just slightly, our legs would press together. I don’t shift. But I don’t move away either.
Ten minutes in, I couldn’t tell you what’s happening on the screen. I’m too aware of him. The way his arm rests along the back of the couch. The way he smells, clean and woody. The memory of his hands on my skin, the feel of his mouth on my neck.
It’s just hormones, I tell myself. Pregnancy hormones. Chemistry plus proximity plus everything being heightened right now. That’s all this is.
On screen, something explodes. I barely register it. Jake shifts beside me, his thigh pressing against mine for just a second before he adjusts. The brief contact sends heat racing through me.
This is a bad idea. Letting him stay. Sitting this close. Pretending I can keep things casual when every cell in my body is screaming at me to close the distance. I should ask him to leave.
Instead, I let my head tip back against the couch, exhaustion pulling at me. The combination of pregnancy fatigue and the emotional whiplash of the last few weeks is catching up. My eyelids feel heavy.
“Tired?” Jake asks quietly.
“A little.”
“We can turn this off if you want to sleep.”
“No, it’s okay. Just resting my eyes.”
But the next thing I know, I’m waking up to darkness. The TV has gone into screensaver mode, casting flickering light across the room. And I’m not where I fell asleep.
I’m curled into Jake’s side, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me. Our legs are tangled together, and one of my hands is resting on his stomach, fingers spread over the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Slow and strong and impossibly comforting. I should move. Pull away. Put space between us before this becomes something I can’t take back. But God, he’s warm. And he smells so good. And I can’t remember the last time I felt this safe.
My fingers trace lightly over his forearm following the line of muscle and vein, the dusting of hair. His skin is warm under my touch, and I feel his breathing change. Not asleep anymore.
I should stop. I should pull away. I tilt my head up instead, and his gaze is already on me. Intense. Focused. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
The air between us ignites. I can see the restraint in his expression. The way he’s holding himself still, letting me decide. Giving me every chance to back away. But I don’t want to back away.
I know I told him this couldn’t happen again. I know I’m the one who set the boundaries. I know he deserves better than me constantly changing the rules, pulling him close and then pushing him away.
But right now, with his arm around me and his heart beating under my ear and his eyes on mine like that, I can’t remember why I thought I could resist this.
I rise up slightly, bringing my mouth close to his, and kiss him.
He responds instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The kiss deepens, and I swing my leg over to straddle him.
His hands slide up my sides, under my shirt, pulling it up until I break the kiss long enough to tug it over my head. I’m in just my bra, and his eyes hit my chest before coming back to my face, checking.
It’s all very, very okay.
I hook my fingers in the hem of his T-shirt and pull it off. His skin is warm under my palms, muscles tightening when I slide my hands over his chest. He works my shorts down over my hips, leaving me in my panties, then pulls my bra down so my breasts spill free.
“Fuck, these tits are perfection,” he says, voice low, before his mouth closes around my nipple.
His tongue circles the tight bud, then he bites lightly and sucks, and heat flashes through me so fast it almost hurts.
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention while I reach between us, pushing his shorts down and slipping my hand into his boxer briefs.
He’s already hard, thick and smooth in my palm, and he groans when I wrap my fingers around him.
His hands know exactly where to touch me. Mine know exactly what makes him swear. It should probably worry me how easy this is now, how fast we find the rhythm of each other again. How right it feels.
I shove that thought away and shift on his lap, lifting up on my knees. I push my panties to the side and guide him to me, sinking down in one slow, greedy slide.
“Fuck, Natalie,” Jake says, head falling back for a second. “You feel so goddamn tight, so warm and wet. I could do this forever.”
A bolt of fear cracks through me at that word, forever, but it dissolves under the next thrust of his hips. I can’t think when we’re like this. When he’s this deep inside me. When every drag of his hands over my skin feels like worship and possession and home all at once.
“You’re so deep,” I breathe. “God, that feels so good.”
“Tell me what you need, Nat.”
“Touch me.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding me with a certainty that makes my eyes slam shut. Within minutes, everything tightens, the world narrowing down to his body under mine, his thumb circling just right, the rough edge in his voice when he says my name.
We both fall hard and fast together, collapsing together on each other afterward.
We stay tangled, and I can feel him starting to soften inside me, my chest still pressed to his as his arms wrap around me, holding me in place.
My body feels loose and heavy, boneless.
My mind is blissfully quiet for the first time in days.
But reality is already creeping back in.
“I should probably go,” he says, voice roughened by sex and the time of night.
The words land like a punch, even though I know he’s right.
Even though I’m the one who created this situation.
I’m the one who told him it couldn’t happen again and then kissed him anyway.
I’m the one who keeps pulling him close and pushing him away, changing the rules every time he thinks he understands them.
He thinks this is what I want. He thinks leaving is what I need. And maybe it is. Maybe I should let him go, let him protect himself from the mess I’m making of this. But something in my chest cracks at the thought.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I slide off his lap, suddenly shy, and grab my shirt and shorts from the floor. I pull them on quickly while he tugs his boxer briefs and shorts back up and pulls his T-shirt over his head.
I walk him to the door, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt, guilt sitting heavy in my stomach.
“Text me when you get home?” I say, then immediately want to take it back. That’s too girlfriend-y. Too much like I care.
But Jake just smiles. “I will.”
He kisses my forehead and I watch him walk down the path and climb into his car. He looks up, like he’s checking I’m still there, then pulls away from the curb.
I close the door, lean my back against it, and let my head thump lightly against the wood.
What are you doing, Nat?
I thump my head against the door again, harder this time.
If you aren’t careful you’re going to push away a great guy who actually wants to raise this kid with you.
My chest tightens at the thought. What if he gets tired of this? Of me? What if one day he decides it’s not worth the whiplash and just stops trying?
I’d deserve it. I know I would.
But the thought of Jake giving up on me, on us, makes something painful twist in my stomach.
I push off the door and clean up the kitchen with sharp, angry movements. Shove the bowls in the dishwasher. Wipe down the counter. Try to wipe away the guilt that’s clinging to my skin.
I brush my teeth and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, willing myself to stop spiraling.
My phone buzzes.
Jake
Home safe. Sleep well.
My heart aches. Actually aches. Because all I want right now is for him to be here, in this bed, his arms around me, making me feel safe in a way I haven’t felt in years.
I smile despite myself, something warm flooding my chest.
Natalie
You too.
I set the phone on my nightstand and close my eyes. I have to do better. I have to figure this out. Before I lose him completely.