Chapter Twenty-One
Robby
“I want to repaint my bathroom. What do you think?” Appa asks, putting toothpaste on her electric toothbrush.
She’s standing barefoot at her vanity, wearing a cream maxi-length sleep dress that clings to her curves down to her ankles, held up by two thin spaghetti straps.
She called the style bodycon, but it wasn’t going to stay on her body much longer.
It’s Friday night, not even a week after our trip to Napa, and we’re back in LA.
As soon as I was done with work for the weekend, I immediately threw a small duffel bag together, grabbed my keys, and was out the door for Appa’s.
I haven’t seen her since we got back; work was too slammed following the long weekend and taking an extra day off.
But seeing her in my roots felt exactly how I always imagined it. I knew Enzo liked her and would have good things to report back to the family. Aside from the pool incident.
No regrets, though.
“Robby?” Appa is staring at me, holding her toothbrush.
My eyes refocus on her. “Yeah, sorry, that sounds good.”
I turn to my vanity. It’s still hers, of course.
I don’t live here, but it’s the unused side.
I think she used to store extra products on it instead of putting them away but keeps it clear for me now.
I brush my teeth alongside her, the alternating buzzing of the brushes filling the quiet bathroom.
Sometimes, I feel like we race each other as we do something as mundane as brushing our teeth, but instead of trying to finish first, it’s seeing who spits first. Whoever finishes second is the more thorough brusher.
Tonight, she got a head start, so no race was needed.
“I was also thinking of redoing some of this caulking. See? It’s wrinkling.” She points out the spot where the counter meets the backsplash.
I spit and rinse my mouth. “Easy enough. You want my mad caulk skills?”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Yes, I want your self-proclaimed mad caulk skills.” She smirks. “In and out of the bedroom.”
I turn toward her. “You drained me all weekend.”
“But that was days ago.”
Just as addicted as me. If not, more than.
“Let’s go get paint and stuff tomorrow morning,” I say to veer this train back on track before she gets too derailed.
“Yay! I’m so tired of this greige. Can we get coffee on the way?” She turns on the big blue puppy-dog eyes as if I’ve ever said no to her.
“If that’s what my passenger princess requires,” I tease.
“You don’t have to ask; I’ll marry you,” she says.
Promise?
I walk over to her across the cool tile floor and lean down to kiss her temple. “Do your skincare. I’ll be waiting in bed.”
She grazes her fingers over my boxers. “You’re the perfect man,” she murmurs.
Something’s clingier about her tonight.
Has she been taking her birth control? She wouldn’t pull the goalie on me without telling me first, and I hardly think she’s the kind of girl who’d do that, either. Let’s be honest, I’d gladly impregnate her if she asked.
Whoa, that’s a fucking spiral.
I put my brain in check, realizing it’s the high from Napa still on her mind, but I’ll still cream her tonight like always for good measure.
She just missed me this week.
“Mm, don’t forget it, baby.”
This time, I press my lips to hers but ultimately leave her wanting more.
I prop myself up against her headboard with a pillow wedged behind my back and lazily throw the fluffy duvet over my bare legs.
I watch as she applies and rinses off her facial cleanser, followed by a small, disposable cotton pad for toner.
Then her serum and moisturizer. I’ve watched so many of her ‘get unready’ videos that I already know her nighttime skincare routine, step by step, and what her favorite products are.
Shopping for her birthday or Christmas will be a breeze.
“I’m going to get you to do your own skincare routine,” Appa says, turning off the bathroom light.
“Do I need one?”
She pulls the sleep dress up to her knees so she can straddle my lap and plant her knees on each side of my hips. “No, because you’re a guy with perfect skin. It’s not fair.”
“You have perfect skin, too,” I say.
Locking eyes with hers, I run my palms up her smooth, toned thighs under the buttery material of her dress, and the material rolls up to her waist. She crosses her arms over her torso, grabbing the bottom hem, and slowly draws it over her head.
The dress is so light that it doesn’t make a noise when it hits the carpet.
She has the best boobs, the perfect weight in my hands.
I reach up and run my fingertips along the smooth curves of her chest. She leans forward, making her soft curls fall in front of her face, and I trail my fingers down her too flat stomach.
“You okay?” she asks.
You have to snap out of it.
“Hmm?”
“You seem zoned out.” She brushes her gentle fingers through my hair.
Because I was fantasizing about your belly not being so flat. Because I put something there.
“Yeah, busy week.”
“Well, let’s take your mind off things.” She leans down to kiss me. “But I want you on top of me.”
This is only going to make it worse.
? ? ?
The next morning, I’m awake before Appa, and I leave her cocooned in the sheets.
I pick up my boxers and her dress from the floor and toss both in her hamper on the way to the shower.
I step inside, and the bath products she originally gave me still live on my designated shelf.
It feels like I already live here sometimes, and I mostly do on the weekends… and some weeknights.
Appa opens the glass shower door, letting some of the air-conditioned air seep into the steamy shower, and steps inside.
“Morning.” She yawns, taking her spot on the opposite side of the shower.
She ducks under the showerhead, wetting her hair.
Facing me, she closes her eyes as the water pours over her, and it feels like permission or an invitation to ogle her curves.
Fuck, her body is sexy.
But she’d be more beautiful if she were a little…rounder. My eyes widen.
What is happening to me?
I force myself to turn away and focus on finishing showering without laying eyes on her again until she steps out of the shower with her towel tucked under her arms.
Within an hour, we have our overpriced coffee and are walking into a home improvement store.
The roads are quiet for a Saturday morning, and the early morning warmth is my favorite part of summer days.
Buying home improvement supplies and having a project feels like such a normal couple thing to do together, and the smell of lumber hits my nose as we navigate to the paint section.
“I’ve been looking forward to this part,” Appa says when we get to the wall of color options.
“I’m going to go grab the caulk,” I say, breaking my hand away from hers.
“Okay.”
She’s already fixated on the color options, and with her style, I’m sure she’ll pick out something that’ll complement her bathroom well.
It only takes a minute to grab a tube of white bathroom caulk and a caulk gun because I’m sure she doesn’t have one lying around in her garage.
I round the corner, and she’s viewing the yellow color options.
I pause at the end of the aisle, and my fingers grip the tube tightly.
Appa reaches up for a yellow card with one hand, the other braced on her rounded baby bump that looks too big on her tiny frame.
Picking out nursery colors. A normal thing for an expecting mother to do to give her baby’s father a weekend project.
But I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life painting baby nurseries if Appa was the mom.
And we lived in Napa. Sunday night dinners spent with my mom and dad, Mom gushing over an expected grandchild, Dad giving me delivery room pointers, and her Mercedes traded in for an SUV.
Parked in the driveway of our home—just two miles away from the vineyard.
“Excuse me,” someone says to me.
The voice snaps me out of whatever the fuck that was. I blink a couple of times, and Appa’s still weighing her color options. Appa, flat-stomached in leggings and a cropped tee, still on birth control. And in LA, unfortunately.
I need therapy for whatever breeding kink she’s given me.
“Got the caulk,” I say, breaking her concentration.
“Oh, good. I knew you’d know the right caulk to get,” she says with a wink. She has no idea how much she’s torturing me by saying that, but I know it’s not her intention.
“You could grab a few options, and we can tape them up to see what looks best.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s a good idea because I like the idea of a muted butter yellow. I’m thinking it will look sunny, especially in the morning, but I don’t know. Blue would be fitting, though,” she rambles.
“Do you have masking tape?” I ask. She freezes, and her eyes flicker away. How the hell did her dad not teach her basic shit? “No?”
“Sorry, doubt I do.”
“It’s okay, Babe. I’ll go get tape.”
When I return to her, she’s holding a small stack with a few different color swatches. “Hope they don’t mind,” she says, giggling.
“No, it’s all good.” I swallow. “Are you still taking your birth control?”
She looks a little taken aback by my blunt question, and I don’t know why I asked it.
“Of course, every day at the same time.” Her eyes dart around the aisle, checking for anyone nearby. “Why are you asking me this here…of all places?” She doesn’t sound offended, thank God, but maybe slightly annoyed.
“Nothing, just checking in. Sorry.”
“Random, but okay.” We head to the self-checkout.
“But since you brought it up, my doctor wants me to take a month break from it to get a baseline and then try something different. I kind of want to get it out of the way since my period will be awful without it,” she says.
“No more raw for you.” I don’t miss the teasing tone in her voice.
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck…
I clear my throat. “You’re funny.” I pause. “But if you know the general time of that period, I’ll take the week off and take care of you.”
If you get it.
“That’d be amazing, Robby.”
But I don’t think I can trust myself around her if she’s not protected.