18. Hunter
Chapter eighteen
Hunter
Living with a pregnant woman is a little like living with a cat. Sometimes, Ellie is weirdly aloof and keeps to herself. Other times, she seems to be starving for affection.
One night, after dinner, she bursts into tears. “I’m just so hungry all the time,” she wails. I guess the two servings of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and zucchini she had weren’t enough. I almost laugh—but I like staying alive.
“What can I get you?” I ask instead.
“Nothing,” she cries. “There’s absolutely nothing I want.”
“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word. I do a mental roll call of all the food we have in the house, wondering if I should just throw out ideas.
“Yesterday, I was craving Thai food because On a Whim had Thai food last week and I was thinking about that all day.” On a Whim is Martha Loretto’s restaurant in town and she cooks whatever she’s in the mood for.
You never know what to expect. “But when Mama and I went to Whim for lunch, she had switched to Mexican, which made me want to vomit. And then I did vomit because of the smell, you know,” Ellie says.
I stare, wide-eyed, because no … I don’t know. Is that normal? I’m about to pull out my phone and start googling, when Ellie grabs my hand. “And then I went to Milky Way Café and Celeste gave me four sugar cookies and … I ate them all, Hunter.” She whispers this last part like it’s a confession.
The way she’s looking at me, I’m unsure whether I’m supposed to reassure her that it’s okay for her to eat four sugar cookies or if she wants me to say she probably shouldn’t have. It feels like a trap, so I say nothing, only nod.
“And then I felt guilty because the cookies had icing with blue dye in them, and I started reading all this horrible stuff online about blue dye. How could I have possibly let Sweetpea get exposed to blue dye? I went back to Celeste and told her how bad blue dye is for babies.” She takes a deep breath between her ramblings, just long enough for me to wonder how poor sweet Celeste took that.
“But then she told me that the dye she uses is all natural. It’s made from blueberries.
Blueberries, Hunter. I was crying because I exposed Sweetpea to blueberries. ”
I laugh, because this seems like the part of the story where I should do that—but Ellie just bursts into even more tears.
At this point, I’m at a complete loss for what to say.
So I gather Ellie in my arms. “It’s okay,” I tell her.
We’re sitting beside each other on the couch, her leg flush with mine.
It’s kind of a weird angle to hug her … and then, she climbs into my lap.
I repeat: Ellie James is in my lap.
Her arms go around me, her face pressed against the crook of my shoulder. I can feel her tears wetting my shirt. I rub her back, just trying to comfort her as I enjoy the weight of her against me. My heart pounds happily in my chest.
Soon, her tears dry. But she stays put. Her nose seems to nuzzle into my neck, and I swear I hear her take a deep breath.
Is she … smelling me?
“Are you wearing cologne?” she asks, still nuzzled against me.
“Uh, no.” I guess she really was sniffing me.
She runs the tip of her nose up the column of my neck, and instantly my vision goes blurry because …
what in the world is happening? My hands pause on her back, forgetting the comfort they were trying to give.
Ellie’s fingers thread through the hair at the back of my neck, twirling little circles in them.
I think I must be hallucinating when Ellie gives a little hum of contentment.
“You smell good, Hunter.” Ellie’s voice sounds a little breathless, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re super pregnant.
“Glad you don’t want to run away to vomit,” I joke, because I do not know how to navigate whatever Ellie is doing right now.
“Shh,” she says, putting one finger on my lips to quiet me. “Don’t talk about vomit.” Her tone is a little husky—even if her words are the farthest thing from sexy.
This is the most bizarrely wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me and I still don’t know what to do.
Ellie’s fingertip traces the edge of my mouth—the same mouth she just silenced. I didn’t realize how many nerve endings I had in my lips until just now. If Ellie’s finger feels this good on my lips, I can’t even imagine if I had her lips on mine right now.
Actually, I can imagine it. And it’s freaking amazing.
We sit like this for what feels like an eternity, Ellie snuggled up in my arms, her hands roaming over my face, neck, and shoulders.
Exploring. I sit quietly, allowing it, but not allowing myself to reciprocate.
I’m not sure if she’d actually want me to; something tells me this is a hormonal thing, and I don’t want to upset the Ellie of tomorrow.
But I’ll sit here and soak it up as long as it’s happening.
It takes all my effort not to groan when she traces a long fingernail around the collar of my shirt. I hold her tighter to me. It’s impossible not to.
And then, as if a bubble burst—she seems to snap out of her trance.
“I need to go to bed,” she says. She tries to scramble out of my lap, but she’s way too pregnant for that, so I have to push her up.
“That was, uh, you know …” she trails off, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Goodnight,” she calls over her shoulder, hurrying to her bedroom as quickly as her pregnant body will allow.
I sit in the quiet of the living room, replaying every touch of hers at least five times. I don’t know what got into Ellie, but I don’t hate it.
Then, I text Martha from On a Whim: Can you make Ellie some Thai food tomorrow? I’ll pay you triple whatever you normally charge.
Aside from overanalyzing the weird—and absolutely mind-blowing—snuggle session with Ellie, my week is filled with more house repairs, painting the nursery, getting Ellie set up on my insurance plan, and, most importantly, looking into Dylan.
I call Connor Prestley, an old friend from the Marines who now runs a private security firm, and ask him to do a background check on the guy.
If my mom thinks something’s off, I’m sure she’s onto something.
Who knows what will turn up, but I’d rather know more than less.
I spend hours online trying to piece together information about him, but Dylan is suspiciously quiet on the internet.
This is the last week of Ellie’s work at the dentist in Cypress City, so I have entirely too much time to myself.
While she’s at work, I head back to her parents’ house and pick up her boxes of fabric, along with anything else I can find that looks remotely work-related for Ellie.
There’s a dining room off to the side of the house that we don’t use, so I set up a workspace for her.
I build some shelves to store her fabrics and find a table Grandma DeeDee had in the attic for the sewing machine. At Moon & Magnolia, Ellie’s mom’s shop, I find a framed picture of a sewing machine that says, “Beautiful things come together one stitch at a time,” and I mount it on the wall.
That night when she gets home, I’ve got Thai food and her new workplace all set up.
“Hunter, this is amazing,” she says, tears welling.
Non-pregnant Ellie cried easily, but pregnant Ellie seems to have a never-ending fount of tears.
It makes me wonder if she needs to get IV therapy to keep her hydrated with all the tears she’s been crying.
I make a mental note to ask about this at her next doctor’s appointment.
“You obviously don’t have to work, but I just thought you might have missed it,” I tell her.
She nods silently, pressing her lips together as the tears start to flow freely.
I take her hand and guide her to the sunroom, where I have our dinner set up—Martha’s Thai food.
Ellie takes a deep breath, inhaling the pungent scent of food. Then her face contorts and before I know what’s happening, she runs from the room.
I hurry after her, but when she runs into the bathroom, I hesitate at the threshold. When she throws up, I decide to follow her in, holding her hair back as she groans into the toilet.
“Sweetpea has spoken,” she groans. “Thai food is out this week.”