40. Amanda
CHAPTER FORTY
AMANDA
Ikeep the apartment door propped open while sitting on a box labeled Amanda’s Books while the baby moves low in my pelvis.
Beckett’s getting ready. At thirty-seven weeks, he could come any minute.
Eric’s worried we waited too long to move, and we’ll bring him home to an unpacked mess. I wouldn’t change anything, though.
The front door opens to a small entryway, giving way to an open-concept space with the living, dining room, and the kitchen.
The windows are tall, taking up the entire far wall, and the soft fall light pours in through red and yellow leaves.
There’s a tiny balcony you can awkwardly crawl onto—well, Eric could.
The master bedroom sits off one hallway with its own small bathroom.
Across, two smaller bedrooms and a shared large bathroom line the opposite wall. Out back, there’s even a porch.
Eric’s voice rumbles from the nursery—one of the smaller bedrooms—breathless, determined… and clearly annoyed. Inside, the floor is littered with tiny screws, plastic-wrapped wooden slats, and tools.
Diego is on his back under the half-assembled crib, one socked foot tapping rhythmically against the floor. “If I die under this thing,” he mutters, “tell Val I went out doing something noble.”
Eric snorts, holding one of the long crib rails. His curls are damp, and his long-sleeved shirt clings to his sweaty back, outlining his muscles. The sight reminds me of the way his skin feels when he’s above me, moving with me, into me. Heat flickers up my neck.
“All I’m telling her is you’re no good with your hands,” Eric says. “You missed a step.”
Andrzej is perched on the mahogany dresser, holding the instruction manual with a frown.
“Move your head, dimwit.” He kicks Diego’s foot.
“Why would I move my—ow, shit.” The base of the crib collapses, a washer rolling onto the floor.
“You know you could help, right?” Eric faces Andrzej, fists on his hips.
“No, no.” He puts his hands up defensively. “I like the view.”
Eric flips him off.
“You guys should just let me do it,” I say. “Women are better at assembling furniture. There’s a study—”
Diego cuts in. “Amanda, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re excellent at this, but you could be having a baby, like, tonight. You’re not getting anywhere near this death trap.”
Eric nods.
“Why is it even this fucking complicated?” Diego groans.
“This one grows with the kid. From crib to full-size bed,” Eric explains. “Reduces waste.”
“Yeah,” Andrzej scoffs, “and the human population.” He points at a loose wood slat. “That’s going to hit him in the nuts.”
Italian and Spanish echo into the apartment before I even see them. My dad and Diego’s, Tony, walk in carrying a toolbox and two six-packs. They each kiss me on the cheek and head straight for the nursery, following Diego and Eric’s voices as they argue about which screws are D or F.
“Hey, kids,” Tony booms, peering into the room. “How come it’s three grown men and the crib’s still in pieces?”
“They’re doing their best.” I stand next to Dad, arms crossed.
“Out.” Tony waves them away. “Bring more stuff up from the truck. I’ve put together a few of these.”
Diego groans. “Didn’t we all get the same crib?”
Tony smacks him. “You’ve got cousins. I’ve built all their cribs.”
Dad rolls up his sleeves. “And I’ve put together two.”
“Two?” Eric and I ask.
“Yeah.” He pats Eric’s shoulder. “Who do you think helped your mom with yours?”
“Enough of that. Work time, Sandro.” Tony grabs the manual. “These pictures better make sense.”
Much later that evening, after the truck is finally empty, my dad and Tony announce the crib is assembled.
Eric checks each slat and joint for any wobble, listening to Tony’s directions on how to adjust the mattress height.
Everyone helps figure out where everything goes—couch, desk, bookshelves.
By dusk, the walls stop echoing. I’m just about to collapse onto the couch when Val barrels through the door, carrying a tray of food and two bottles of wine.
Behind her stand the four Camacho girls, Diego’s mom, and the Bennett twins.
Eric’s mom and mine close the group, each person lugging diapers and wipes in every size imaginable.
“What is all of this?” I wave at everyone around us.
“A peace offering.” Laura puts down a box of diapers and smooths her braid. “We hurt you guys.”
“We’re sorry, Eric,” Lorena adds.
“They’re having a fit of collective guilt.” Val points at the twins. “Ignore it.”
Diego’s mom pats Eric’s cheek. “We love you, Eric. You two”—she points at us—“are about to have a life-changing experience. You deserve moral support, hot food, and help unpacking.”
Eric blinks and moves closer to reach for my hand, tugging me to him.
“So…” Laura wiggles her eyebrows. “Are you two going to kiss, or are we still pretending you’re just roommates?”
Eric doesn’t even hesitate. He leans over and kisses me. It’s not showy, but also not shy. His lips firmly touch mine, slow and assertive, though chaste enough for the parents in the room.
“Happy?” he says to Laura.
My dad claps his hands. “Before this gets more heated, everyone pick a box and unpack, people!”
It’s really chaotic for hours, but by midnight, when Diego leaves, we’ve unpacked almost everything. Eric wraps his arms around me. We stand there, holding each other while he processes an entire support system he didn’t know he had.
When I get out of the shower, I lean against the ensuite door, scrunching my wavy hair with the towel until water stops seeping down the back of the plain blue T-shirt I’m wearing. After draping the towel over my shoulders, I settle against the door frame, the edge pressing into my arm.
A few droplets still drip onto the shoulders of my T-shirt, the hem barely brushing the tops of my thighs. I should probably dry my hair some more, but I can’t take my eyes off Eric, bare-chested, as he wrestles with the fitted sheet.
He’s secured three corners, but the one missing—his—has declared war.
Every time he manages to pull it over one corner, the one diagonally across from him pops free, and he groans.
Finally sick of circling the bed, he adjusts the stubborn corner one more time before climbing onto the mattress on his knees and elbows, stretching across the bed to keep both rebellious corners in place.
The movement draws a pronounced dip between his shoulder blades as his spine arches.
In the closet mirror beside the bed, the muscles along his ribs pull taut, ink shifting over his torso every time he moves.
Finally satisfied, he flicks his eyes up and finds mine in the mirror. I hold his gaze for a beat before letting my attention trail down his chest, along his sides and over his abs. I let myself look without shame, with unabashed admiration, because I finally get to look at him whenever I want.
Smirking, Eric sits back on his heels, never breaking eye contact through the mirror as he does the same thing.
His gaze traces the curve of my breasts beneath the shirt, his teeth catching his lower lip when my nipple beads beneath his stare, before drifting down to the goose bumps rising along my thighs.
When I lift my eyes to his chest again, he’s breathing harder, each gasp for air making his chest expand in short, shallow huffs.
The head of his cock begins to harden, the outline of it noticeable beneath his shorts.
The fabric grows tighter the longer my gaze lingers there.
He’s not fully hard yet, but the warmer the air turns between us, the more decadent and glassy his eyes turn, the less tired I feel.
Still, through the mirror, he meets my eyes and pats the space beside him on the mattress.
“Come here.”
I push off the door and sway my hips toward him.
It’s an awkward thing to attempt in my third trimester, but Eric doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of grace.
If his smoldering gaze and the unmistakable outline of his full erection beneath his shorts are anything to go by, he likes the view just fine.
I climb onto the bed, crossing the rumpled sheet until I’m behind him, my eyes still locked on his through the mirror. My belly presses against the lower half of his back as I snake my arms around his middle, holding him tightly against me, then dart my tongue out.
He can’t see what I’m doing with our height difference, but his spine prickles as I trace the outline of his muscles, his eyes rolling under the lids. His right hand reaches back, finding my hip and holding me against him as I keep my mouth against his skin.
Eric rises onto his knees and turns until we’re face-to-face, one hand still gripping my hip, the other sliding into my hair. His fingers curl and gently tug my head back until I’m looking directly at him.
That’s when every muscle in my body locks. My breath catches.
Eric, shirtless and on his knees. Desire clouding his eyes.
I can’t breathe.
His eyes flicker over my face, sensing the shift before he understands it. He leans closer, his nose brushing mine, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine.
I’m frozen, unable to close the distance. Unable to move past this.
No matter how many times I tell myself that right now is nothing like right then, my body doesn’t believe me. I’m locked in place, unable to do anything but watch. Except what I see isn’t now.
His brows draw together as he searches my face.
“You were on your knees,” I whisper, the words scraping past my dry throat.
Eric’s expression shifts from confusion to the self-hatred that comes to him far too easily. I watch the realization hit: the picture he’s pieced together, the memory he’s afraid he’s dragged into this room with us.
He gets off his knees so quickly the mattress bounces beneath me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Eric—”
“I didn’t…” He swallows hard. “I wasn’t thinking.” He forces his eyes to half-mast though he’s squinting through the need to shut them. He grimaces before croaking out, “We never have to—”
“Eric.”