Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
I’ve seen Quintin twice since the day he asked me out. Between fatigue and scheduling mishaps in our careers, it’s been two weeks. In those two weeks, my belly has grown. I typically hide it in bulky clothing, thankful for the cool weather.
But tonight, I’m embracing my pregnant body in a formfitting skirt and a band tee.
The booties I wear add a few inches to my height, and I pull on a leather jacket to complete the look.
My hair is pulled up in a bun, and I’m tucking a granola bar in my bejeweled clutch when I hear a knock at my door.
When I yank it open, fully expecting Quintin, I curse myself for not checking the peephole or setting up that god damn fucking camera outside my door.
“Uh…” I start, staring at the man in a black suit standing in front of me. He isn’t much taller than me, and I step back a little, my hand still on the door.
“Daniela?” the man asks, his hands resting together in front of him.
“Are you here to kill me?” I ask, cursing myself again for not putting a blade in my clutch instead of a granola bar. I can’t kill this man with a granola bar.
Unless he has a nut allergy…
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m here to bring you to dinner. Mr. Lavigne is waiting.”
I agreed to go on a date with this man, and I don’t even know his last fucking name. I’m officially one of the people you see in horror movies who dies first.
With a shrug, I grab my keys and step out, following this stranger down the steps. Because apparently, I’ll never learn.
I’m sitting across from the man of the hour in a private room at Tastebud, a restaurant I’ve always wanted to try.
After we were seated, a man named Andrew came in and chatted with Quintin for a minute.
It turns out he’s the owner, and based on how busy this place always is, he’s doing extremely well for himself.
When he noticed my belly, he mentioned his twenty-year-old daughter who’s in college and informed me that it goes by quickly.
A blink of an eye , he said.
It felt nice to talk about the baby without a sense of melancholy attached to it.
And all through the exchange, Quintin’s gaze was hard to ignore.
His smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the way he held my hand in his…
it all made it easy to fall into a world where I’m not on a first date while pregnant with another man’s baby.
In the candlelight, I watch him as he watches me. He sips on his water, and I wonder if he’s drinking it in solidarity. While not necessary, it’s certainly appreciated. I bet the wine selection here is sublime.
Dinner was delicious—I ordered the short rib ragu—but my nerves kept me from being comfortable now that the truth is out. I’m the elephant in the room right now.
“So…what’s new?” he asks, breaking the silence. It’s strange to hear him ask something so vague, so I wonder if he’s throwing me a bone.
Talk to me about something you’re comfortable sharing.
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” he murmurs.
I take a deep breath as I try to think of how exactly to answer him. In the end, I go for complete honesty.
“Transitioning is lonely. It’s scary. I don’t have someone to run out and get me late-night snacks, to rub my feet, to handle my crazy horny hormones. I wonder if I’m going to fuck this kid up, if I’m ready for this and how I’m going to tell my family.”
In my passionate spiel, I realize how loud I’ve gotten, and I glance around before lowering in my seat.
“That bad?” he asks, his eyebrows raised and a sad smile on his face that irks me.
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Good, because I’m not giving it.”
“What are you giving then?”
“That remains to be seen, I suppose,” he muses, stroking his beard in a way that makes me think he has plans for me.
Hopefully to twist my ass into a pretzel.
Speaking of pretzels, a jumbo soft pretzel with honey mustard sounds so fucking good right now…
“I only have the best intentions,” he attempts to reassure me, bringing me back to the present. I try to stamp down my disappointment at the idea of not being fucked within an inch of my life.
Too bad.
“Who are you, Prince Charming?”
He smirks, sitting back so I can’t see the color of his eyes in the dim lighting. “I don’t think you’re looking for Prince Charming, Daniela.”
“No?”
He shakes his head, remaining silent for a second before finding the right words. “You’re just looking for a man to prove you wrong.”
“And is that you?” I ask, wondering if this is a path I can safely wander down.
“You’d have to give me a chance if you want to find out.”
I think of Santana telling me to give him a fair chance. I think of how I’ve managed to be alone for a long time. Whether I’m ready or not, I won’t be anymore. Maybe it’s time I give him a chance.
“I have to be honest, I’m still not a hundred percent comfortable with this…situation,” I confess, trying to find a tactful way to express my trepidation.
“I don’t think either of us will be for a little while.”
“Okay…well, promise me one thing?”
“Depends,” he says, a soft smile playing with his lips.
“Fair. Promise me if it makes you too uncomfortable—if you feel like you can’t handle it—you’ll let me know? This isn’t like dating a regular, unattached woman.”
“Honestly speaking?”
I nod.
“Even before I found out you were pregnant, I knew you were so far from regular.”
I hum, unsure of how to respond to him.
“I apologize if this is too personal, but…how far along are you?”
“Seventeen weeks today, actually,” I rush the answer out, like the dirty little secret I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep it from being.
“Almost halfway there,” he tells me, and when I look away, he reaches out to touch my hand. The slight caress of his thumb over my knuckles is enough to make me crave further contact. “We don’t have to talk about it, but it’ll probably make things a lot easier if we do.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I respond before I chuckle, keeping my hand in his. “I’m not sure about much anymore.”
When he sits back, letting my hand go, I miss the contact. I’m yearning for all the things I’ve gone far too long without. Companionship. Intimacy.
“Well, I think I have just the thing to help,” he announces, and I quirk a brow, unable to keep from grinning.
“Oh yeah?”
Is it dick ? —
“Dessert,” he tells me as he stands, reaching for my hand. “Let’s go.”
My second favorite d-word.
Quintin’s restaurant is much different at night, when most are the lights are off—far too intimate for me to behave myself. I’m sitting on a stool at the opposite end of a large metal table, no doubt used to prepare food. All I can think about is being spread on top of it and feasted on.
The poor man is none the wiser as he talks me through the dessert classes he’s been taking, how many different things he’s learned to do with fondant.
“I worked on your flower for hours,” he muses, glancing down before staring at me through his lashes. “Which is probably the saddest thing you’ve ever heard.”
I shake my head, unable to tell him it’s refreshing. It only makes me want to stroke his co?—
“I tried to replicate the flower from Beauty and the Beast ,” he confesses, and I squint as I grin at this beautiful cheesy man.
“Would that make me Belle?” And will you be my beast?
He shakes his head as he smirks, as if he can read my mind. Just as quickly, he shifts the subject.
“Let me give you some dessert choices,” he tells me as he opens one of the industrial refrigerators and begins spouting off options.
“What are you craving?” he asks, an innocent question that has me squeezing my thighs together.
His back is to me as he peruses the refrigerator, and I’m silent as my gaze roves over his backside.
The way he’s leaned forward, his strong arm bracing his weight against the door, makes my mouth water.
The sight of colorful ink covering his skin is enough for me to whimper with desire. Have I ever been this turned on before?
Having a sexy man ask me what I’m craving when I’m pregnant and horny is a recipe for hot, sweaty sex.
At my lack of response, Quintin peers over his shoulder. When his stare meets mine, he turns, fully facing me. I press my lips together as his hazel eyes turn honey golden, his chin tipping, his jaw clenching before releasing.
We’re silent as the space between us becomes filled with the palpable attraction.
I’m all flushed skin and sensitive nipples that beg to be licked, inner thighs that yearn to be worshipped.
He’s all brooding gaze, a jaw that continues to tick under the pressure of his arousal, and large palms that look like they’re reaching for me before they land on the tabletop.
I want those hands all over me. I want it so badly, I find myself leaning toward him.
As if he knows now is no longer the time to be the nice guy next door, he braces himself on the table, the cords of muscle on his forearms on full display, and he changes his tactic.
“Tell me what you’re craving,” he murmurs, and I swear to God, I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. He walks along the table until we’re on the same side, staring at one another. He turns the stool so I’m facing him head on.
I want this man to fucking destroy me in the best possible way. I want him to lay me on this table and feast on my body like he’s starved for the mere taste of it.
I want my orgasm to obliterate my senses until I want to toss my vibrator in the garbage disposal, knowing it could never come close.
And Quintin looks at me like he wants all the same things.
“A man who proves me wrong,” I utter, my words soft, full of pent-up desire that’s had its claws at my throat for far too long.
I swear, he can read my mind, because he bends toward me, his calloused palm making my skin tingle as he glides it ever so softly against the tops of my breasts before it makes its way to my neck, resting on the exposed column of it.