Chapter 20
Titus
“What are you doing in here?” I lean against the open doorway leading into my newly furnished first-floor office, watching as Mariah arranges an array of items on the built-in shelving behind the desk.
She peeks over one shoulder, giving me a genuine smile instead of the overwide ones she offers everyone else.
“I was just putting out some of the stuff I found in the boxes in the basement.” She turns back to the line of picture frames she’s set up, adjusting one by a few degrees before climbing down the step stool she shouldn’t have been standing on in the first place.
“You should have come to get me.” I cross the room, collapsing the ladder I’m going to have to hide. “You could have fallen and gotten hurt.”
Just thinking about it makes me struggle to pull in air. With every passing day my fears about Mariah and her baby grow. I think of new ways one or both of them could get injured. If I'm not careful, it will consume me. And I don't have time to be consumed by fear.
Not when there is still so much to do.
For now, I prop the stool against the wall, looking up at her hard work.
"That looks really nice." I don't remember buying any of the items she’s put up there—probably didn't — but they look like things I would have picked out. Clean lines. Simple designs. The collection of art and antiques I’m sure my mother selected set a masculine, almost retro sort of tone.
"Yeah?" Mariah gives me another of her genuine smiles. "I'm glad. I want you to have something nice to look at while you're in here working like crazy."
I reach for her, stroking along one arm. "I thought that was why you made yourself a little reading corner."
I haven't done more than touch Mariah since the morning she woke up in my bed.
Well... Touched and kissed. But nothing more physical than that.
Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know exactly how to make it happen.
Not without putting pressure on her. And I will never pressure her for anything.
If she wants to go back to being simply my chef and roommate, then that's what will happen. I would find a way to deal with it. Whatever keeps her here. Close enough I can take care of her in whatever capacity she’ll allow it.
"You seem pretty distracted when I'm in here." She gives me a little poke in the stomach. "It's probably better if I stay in the family room."
“Whatever you think is best.” I disagree, but again, I'm trying to let her dictate anything that happens between us. Hopefully I can stay the course.
The alarm I set up a few days ago pings, letting us know someone's pulled into the driveway.
Mariah's brows pinch together as she turns to peer out the window. "Are you expecting someone?"
"I am, actually." I take her hand in mine, pulling her along as I go to the door. "And so are you."
Mariah's doctor's appointment isn't for a few more days, but we have a lot to accomplish over the coming months. And while I know she's still not fully ready to tackle what's headed our way, I am.
I open the door, greeting the architect my family has used for every project here on the property.
"Come on in, Jason." I close the door and motion for him to come into my office.
I follow behind, again bringing Mariah along.
Once we're in, I direct him to one of the sitting chairs Mariah ordered and lead her to sit behind my desk.
Perching on the corner next to where she sits, I get the ball rolling.
"Jason is going to help us rework the upstairs floorplan so it will be more conducive to the situation we have coming. "
Mariah looks from me to Jason, then back to me again. "The situation we have coming?"
I give her my full attention, explaining to her what I've asked Jason to accomplish. "Right now, it’s basically set up as two separate suites. And as you pointed out, we’re going to need a room for the baby.
" I smile at her shocked expression. "They won't be able to stay with you forever. Eventually kids need their own space."
My mind wants to jump forward in time. Wants to imagine what it will be like when Mariah's baby is running through the house, playing with toys, filling what has long been a silent structure with giggles and screams and chaos.
But that would be getting ahead of myself. First, I have to convince Mariah this is a good plan. That she should stay with me instead of looking for a place of her—their—own.
Mariah swallows, her throat working hard on the action. "You want us to stay here?"
"Of course I do." Uncertainty tries to creep in. Not over whether or not I want Mariah and the baby here—I absolutely do—but over whether she wants to be here.
Maybe this isn't the great plan I thought it was.
It's possible she has zero interest in staying with me beyond childbirth, so I begin to plead my case.
"It will be hard to do everything on your own, and I think it makes sense for you to stay here where you have a whole support system.
" I hesitate before throwing in what could either be my ace in the hole or send her running immediately.
"And I'm sure my parents would love to be your on-call babysitters. "
"I..." Mariah's eyes move over my face, like she can't believe what I'm suggesting.
But I don't know if it’s in a good way or a bad way, so I'm forced to ask, "What do you think?
Do we let Jason show us what he's come up with and figure out a plan?
" I take a deep breath, forcing myself to give her an out.
"Or do you want to think about it a little more and look at all your options? "
Mariah rubs her lips together, the fear on her face cutting into me because I don't know what's causing it or how to fix it. After way too many silent seconds, she finally gives me the words I want to hear. "I want to stay."
Without thinking, I lean forward, too thrilled to know she’ll be here with me for the foreseeable future to think through what I'm doing. It's not until my lips are on hers in front of Jason, that I remember we have an audience.
An audience who is very close with my family.
Pulling away, I clear my throat and turn to the man who is likely going to call my mother the minute he leaves here. "Show us what you have."
Jason spends the next hour laying out the options.
All the ways we can use my existing footprint to create additional rooms. He also offers an option that expands the house, keeping my rooms as they are while opening up the back half where Mariah's rooms are into a haven for children.
It includes three new bedrooms and a playroom, along with two additional bathrooms. Doing that would also add extra space to the first floor, giving us the opportunity to include a space for kids down there as well.
I know which one I'm picking, but Mariah looks overwhelmed.
I ask Jason to leave everything for us to look over, telling him we’ll get back with him after we've gone over everything.
After showing him out, I come back into my office to find Mariah pacing around.
I kind of thought this would overwhelm her, so I settle into the chair she vacated, letting her burn off a little of whatever's bothering her before I ask, "What's upsetting you? "
Mariah's head snaps my way, eyes focusing on me like she didn't even notice I was back. "Nothing. I'm fine." The fake, bright smile she's perfected affixes to her face.
But it's way too late for her to try to use it on me.
"Come here." I wait as she slowly inches closer, sitting very still so I don't spook her.
I've discovered that when Mariah is in her carefully crafted element—the one filled with bright smiles and cheery words—she’s the most comfortable.
But whenever one foot steps outside that circle of sunshine, she gets nervous. Unsure and skittish.
I don't like how afraid she is to be anything besides happy and positive. I especially don't like when she pretends to be what she's not with me.
As soon as Mariah's close enough, I pick her up by the waist, depositing her on the desk in front of me.
Now that we're face-to-face, and my body’s position between her thighs makes it difficult for her to easily escape, it's time to start asking tough questions.
"Why does the thought of staying with me after the baby’s born make you anxious? "
Mariah's expression turns to one of confusion. "That's not what makes me anxious."
I might not have identified the issue, but I did get her to admit the anxiety pinching her features. So I guess that's a start. Resting my hands on her thighs, rubbing up from her knee and back again through the fabric of her stretchy pants, I hold her gaze. "What does make you anxious?"
Mariah's lips flatten, like she thinks she can hold it inside. And maybe she can. I'm not exactly great at prying information out of people. Human interaction isn't one of my strengths. But, if I want to take care of her—and I do—I need to figure out how to interact with her.
So I pull her closer, thinking it might help her see what I'm thinking. How I’m feeling. “Tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
"I —” Her eyes drop mine, forcing me to lift a hand to her chin, gently pressing up until she's looking at me again.
"You, what?"
Her teeth pinch her lower lip, face filled with the discomfort I know means what she's about to tell me is true. Real. Not what she wants me to hear, but how she genuinely feels.
"I have a bad habit of seeing things for what I want them to be instead of what they really are," Mariah starts softly.
Carefully. Like she thinks I won't understand.
"I go and do something thinking it'll be the best thing that's ever happened to me, and it never turns out the way I expect it to.
" Her words come easier. "I see things and people for better than they are.
Situations for more than they could ever be.
" Her next breath is shaky. "It's happened more times than I can count, and I feel like a freaking idiot every time.
So I move away. Try to start fresh, thinking I will be better this time.
" Her head barely shakes. "But I never am. "
Her words hit me with the force of a punch. I've been thinking Mariah pretends to be happy because she wants everyone to think she's great and pleasant and easy to get along with. But maybe at least part of the reason Mariah pretends she's happy is because she wants so much to genuinely be happy.
"And you're worried that's what's going to happen here." I don't pose it as a question. I don't have to. It's obvious that's what she's afraid is going on.
Mariah nods. "I read into things that I shouldn't, and put importance in places other people don't. I start imagining something that doesn't exist, because I only see what I want to see."
Is that what I am? Something she wants to see? The possibility that Mariah could want this—want me—settles an unrest I didn't know existed. Fills me with a sense of rightness I haven't carried in a long fucking time.
"And you're afraid that what's happening between us isn't real." Again, not a question. "Or that you're misreading the things I say and do."
This time Mariah's nod is barely perceptible. But I don't have to see it to know I'm right.
And—as I've shown time and time again—there's not much I wouldn't do to make her happy. So instead of hiding away like I have for over a decade, I expose the most vulnerable part of me. I open up, knowing the risk it carries.
"You're not misreading anything, Mariah.
" I swallow hard, torn between guilt and fear.
"I want you in a way I haven't wanted anyone in a very long time.
" My hand slides from where it still holds her chin to curve against her face.
"I want you to stay here with me. I want to take care of you.
" My eyes and hand drop, both resting on her still unchanged belly. "And I want to take care of them."
I could kid myself into believing this is simply me trying to replace what I lost. Make up for what I lack. Honestly, it would be easier if it was.
But I don't think of Mariah as a replacement. I can't slot her into the place Kara once filled. She doesn't fit. And shouldn't have to.
Neither does her baby. The baby she's growing can never replace the one I lost, but that doesn't make it any less wanted. Because at the end of the day, it's not only Mariah I want.
When I lift my eyes to hers, there's an amount of emotion I can't decipher. I could try to pick it apart. Analyze it down to its core. But I don't want to. Because it doesn't need to be treated like the work I do every day.
It just needs to be.
Mariah stares at me for a minute, eyes shimmering. Then without warning she leans forward, bringing her mouth to mine in a kiss that is nothing like the chaste versions I've offered her the past few days.
This kiss is consuming.
Completing.
And like it has so often with her, it rolls out of control, dragging me into a place I can’t fight my way out of.
Wouldn’t if I could.
Before I fully know what I’m doing, I’ve peeled away the stretchy pants she’s been wearing lately, along with the panties she had on beneath them.
When she’s bare from the waist down, I drag her closer.
Close enough I can hook her knees over my shoulders and lower my head between her thighs to satisfy the need I’ve been ignoring for days.
She tastes so fucking good, I growl in satisfaction as I slick my tongue up the length of her seam.
Tasting. Flicking with a steady pace. Pushing her higher with each curl of my tongue against the hard nub of her clit.
I don’t tease her. Don’t take it slow or careful.
I don’t take my time. Not today. Today she needs to learn a few things about me.
That I’m the one she should come to. Come for.
That I will give her anything she wants. Everything she needs.
That I possess the power, means, and motivation to do it.
Because I have a point to prove. To her.
And to myself.