Chapter 28
Oliver
Note to self: cooking is way harder than it looks when celebrity chefs do it on TV. Whoever said just follow the directions clearly never had to juggle three pans at once.
Some of the guys on the team enjoy cooking. Like River, the weird motherfucker.
I’m not one of them, though.
Hell, I can barely boil pasta without it turning into glue. But Rina’s here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take care of her.
So, I follow the recipe on my phone like it’s gospel. Vegetables sizzle in one pan, quinoa simmers in a pot, and chicken bakes the way some smug food blogger swore would come out juicy.
Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.
I stir and check the screen for the umpteenth time, praying I’m not about to ruin the whole damn dinner.
Still, I have to admit, the kitchen smells pretty good. Notes of garlic and herbs rise from the skillet, blending with the nutty scent of quinoa.
That alone feels like a win.
I glance over my shoulder and find Rina perched on a stool at the island, elbows propped on the counter, chin tilted to one side. She’s watching me with a skeptical frown.
The sight makes me grin.
When I set a plate in front of her, she stares down at it like she can’t decide whether to laugh, poke at it, or applaud. Before she can choose, I slide the fork into her hand.
“Dig in, baby. You’re carrying my kid, which means my job is making sure you eat.”
Her brows lift. “You’re incredibly bossy, you know that?”
“Yup.” I lean close enough to catch the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo. “And I’m starting to suspect you like my bossiness.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue.
Surprise flickers in her eyes as she takes a bite. “This is actually good.”
Pride swells inside me. I’ve scored game-winners that didn’t hit like this.
Who knows, maybe I’ll start cooking more often.
While she eats, I drag the oversized box from the entryway and set it on the counter. Inside is the haul from my early-morning panic shopping spree. Three pregnancy books, prenatal vitamins, ginger gum, and a handful of teas for nausea. I line everything up on the island.
Her fork clatters against the plate. “What’s all this?”
“What does it look like?” I flip open one of the books, scanning the table of contents like a scouting report. “Homework. I need to know what’s happening to your body so I can help you through it.”
She freezes, her eyes wide.
That look, filled with equal parts surprise and emotion, finds its mark before I can brace for it.
“What’s wrong? Did you really think I wouldn’t care or want to be involved?” I ask quietly.
Her throat works as she swallows. “Honestly? I wasn’t sure. You’ve always been content to play the field. You’re not known in the league as the Big O for nothing.”
I step closer until her knees brush my thighs. “For a time, maybe I was. But then I found someone worth settling down for. And I’ve been trying to convince her to take a chance on me ever since.”
Her gaze darts away, the walls she’s always hiding behind slipping for half a second before she deflects. “So… cooking. I didn’t realize you could do it.”
Instead of pursuing the conversation, I let her off the hook.
For now.
I shrug as a hint of a smile quirks my lips. “I’m learning. Give me a little time, and I’ll be whipping up culinary masterpieces for you to sample.”
We fall into an easy rhythm over dinner, the tension between us easing but never quite disappearing. Every brush of her hand, every laugh that slips out, winds me tighter. By the time she leans back with a contented sigh, I can’t keep my distance for another minute.
After dinner, I scoop her into my arms before she can argue.
“Oliver!” she says with a laugh, swatting my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I read that rest and relaxation are key.” I carry her into the bathroom. “So, I’m making sure you follow doctor’s orders and get plenty of it.”
I set her on the marble counter, and the gasp that slips from her lips hits me square in the chest. The sound is faint, barely there, but it lodges deep, twisting something inside me I didn’t even know was waiting to unravel.
Her fingers grip the edge of the counter, knuckles pale against the cool stone, and for a moment, all I can do is stare as uncertainty flickers behind her lashes. Heat builds beneath my skin until my pulse thunders in my veins.
I turn toward the shower and twist the handle, letting the rush of water fill the silence. Steam rises, curling in lazy, ghostlike tendrils that blur the edges of the room.
When I turn back, she’s still sitting where I left her. Her eyes have softened a fraction, the wariness dimming but not completely gone. It lingers in the way her shoulders tense and she stills, as if bracing for something she can’t name.
That quiet guardedness tugs at me. I want to ease it from her body, piece by fragile piece, and prove that she doesn’t have to fight so hard to be strong.
Not when she’s with me. Every instinct I have is telling me to reach for her and strip away whatever walls she’s still hiding behind until all that’s left is trust.
I take a step closer, letting the distance shrink between us as the sound of water fills the charged silence before peeling away her clothing.
Each layer falls in a hushed whisper against the tile until a pile of fabric pools at our feet.
Rina is stunning under the golden glow that spills from the light fixture overhead.
Even though her hair is pinned up, a few rebellious strands escape, tumbling down to frame her flushed cheeks. They catch the light when she moves, a halo of warmth that has everything inside me tightening.
I bend close enough for my lips to brush the delicate slope of her shoulder, tasting the faint sweetness of her skin. I hover there, unwilling to rush, allowing the moment to stretch. Right now, she’s mine to memorize. Every soft sound, every tremor, every quiet surrender.
And I plan to take my time doing it.
Steam thickens around us as I strip down and step beneath the spray with her.
The water hits her first, cascading over her shoulders in shimmering streams before sliding down the smooth lines of her body.
Droplets cling to her skin like liquid glass, pooling in the hollow of her throat before tracing lazy paths over her curves.
I find myself unable to look away. Every shift, every small rise and fall of her body, every flicker of movement, sears itself into my soul.
I lather my hands, letting the soap work into a smooth glide, before tracing them along her sides. She feels both fragile and unbreakable, and it makes me want to handle her with the utmost care.
My hands map the curves of her body, memorizing them with lingering touches. She shivers when I cup her breasts, my thumbs brushing over the tight peaks. It’s a quiet sound that echoes off the tile before arrowing straight through me. I lean in, pressing my mouth against the column of her neck.
“God,” I murmur against her ear. “You’re gorgeous.”
She tilts her head back, eyes closed, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappears. Tension leaks from her muscles and every line of her body relaxes as I roll the hardened tips between my fingers.
My hands drift lower, exploring the gentle swell of her belly before sliding between her thighs.
Her skin is slick from the water, hot and trembling beneath my touch.
I find her clit with practiced precision, circling in deliberate strokes that have her hips jerking forward.
I shift to light taps and gentle brushes, each movement intentional, each one meant to drive her higher without giving her everything she craves.
She arches, desperate for more, and the sound that breaks loose from her nearly undoes me.
I press closer, my mouth at her ear. “Not yet, baby. I want you begging for me.”
The shudder that slides through her tells me she’s close to breaking, but I hold steady, forcing myself to take my time. Every touch is intentional, a vow etched into her skin. Each caress carries the words I don’t know how to speak out loud.
That she’s mine.
That I’ll worship her until she finally believes it.
That she’ll never have to do this alone.
By the time we’re done with the shower, she’s trembling and pliant beneath my hands, lashes fluttering against her damp cheeks.
I twist off the water and reach for a towel, drawing it over her in careful sweeps, unwilling to rush a single second.
Not the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, or the gentle rise of her belly where our child grows.
I drop to my knees in front of her, pressing my lips to her stomach and the steady beat of life beneath it.
“I still can’t believe our baby is in here,” I whisper.
Her fingers slip into the damp strands of my hair. Her touch is both gentle and tentative, as if she’s afraid the moment will vanish if she holds on too tightly.
“Neither can I,” she murmurs. “It still feels surreal.”
I meet her gaze. “This isn’t a dream. And I’ll be here every step of the way.”
She doesn’t respond as her eyes search mine. The silence between us feels like a promise waiting to be spoken out loud.
I rise to my feet and brush my thumb over her cheek. “Go lie down so I can finish what I started.”
She moves toward the bedroom on unsteady legs, her body trembling. I follow a few steps behind, fighting for composure that’s quickly slipping away. Every ounce of restraint I have feels stretched thin, pulled tight enough to snap.
I stop in the doorway and take in the sight of her spread out across my sheets. The muted light from the hallway spills over her, turning her skin a rich, golden hue.
For a second, I’m frozen in place. It runs through my head again that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And that somehow, against all odds, she’s mine.
The air between us feels thick enough to touch. I halt at the edge of the bed, drawn to the trust in her eyes and the quiet, willing surrender in the way she waits for me.