Chapter 16 Then Comes Baby in a Baby Carriage
Ren
We say goodbye to Dr. Romero. Not quite sure what I expected of an on-call mob doctor, but he was a perfectly pleasant man.
It takes a special kind of person to make you not feel awkward handing over a little plastic cup of your pee, and I barely felt the needle when he drew blood.
All in all, I’d give him five stars on Yelp.
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. He looks aghast. “You’re starving. I need to get some food in you. I’m so sorry. I’m not a big breakfast person and forget others are.”
I can’t help but laugh at his deathly concern. “I’m hungry, not starving. No need to declare a state of emergency.”
“Okay.” He chuckles. “But can I please feed you? Soon, preferably.”
“You may.” His genuine desire to care for me makes it easy to accept. “Though, I might have to call bullshit.”
His smile turns to a frown. “On what?”
I give him a flirty smirk. “Well, you definitely seemed like a breakfast person this morning.”
He laughs with a smile that is completely uninhibited. And goddamn if it doesn’t make me weak. Before these five days are over, I promise myself I’m going to get a photo of him smiling like this, a beauty that must be preserved for the sake of humanity . . . and myself.
He raises his hands in surrender. “I stand corrected. Now, where do you want to eat? The other thing about not being a breakfast person is not having any breakfast food on hand.”
About three places immediately come to mind. “What about—did you put lights up?!” They’re unplugged, so I didn’t notice right away, but there is in fact a string of lights wrapping around his otherwise bare Christmas tree.
“Oh, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck and half-shrugs.
“I thought you don’t decorate?”
“I don’t.” Then his eyes go up and down my body, and he smiles out of the corner of his mouth. “Or I didn’t.”
I resist the urge to jump up and down. “This is great news. I can help you put ornaments up later if you want.”
He grimaces. “I don’t have any—well, I have these, but I put them on and they just looked silly.”
Walking over to the tree, he pulls out a box of frosted ornaments.
I laugh. “Well, of course they would. It’s a seven-foot tree and you only have six.”
“Now that I hear you say it.” He chuckles, unembarrassed. “How about after eating, we go buy some more, the proper amount?”
I can’t help but twist side to side excitedly. “I can’t think of any other way I’d rather spend the day.”
After the best breakfast sandwich of my life, we get back in Roman’s car.
“So, where to?” he asks.
“I’ve been thinking about this. Most people have a collection of assorted ornaments that they’ve gathered over years and years.
And that’s one of the things that I love about Christmas trees.
It’s like a chronicle of a family’s story, right?
” He nods, following along. “But we’re starting from scratch, and you don’t want a boring tree with all these perfectly uniform ornaments. No offense or anything.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Don’t worry, none taken.”
“Good.” I smile then continue explaining, “So, I think in order to get that look, we should go to a thrift store. They’re a treasure trove this time of year, and there’s a huge one less than a mile from here.”
“Done and done.” He bobs his head, pleased. “Let’s do it.”
A few minutes later, we’re walking into Thrift ‘n Things. It’s usually crazy this close to Christmas, but I guess a Thursday at eleven is slow even during the holidays. Apparently, a local nursing home figured the same thing.
Right after us, a dozen or so octogenarians stream in. A bus with the facility’s name and smiling stock photo of an older couple waits outside for them. Roman and I watch them slowly disperse down the many aisles then look at each other.
I grin. “Oh good—”
“Don’t,” Roman warns playfully.
While trying not to laugh, I explain, “I was just gonna say—”
“That I could get a ride home with them?” He lifts his brow as if unamused, but I can tell he’s fighting a smile.
“I was actually going to suggest we ask them about their water aerobics program.”
Wholly unconvinced, he asks, “Oh really?”
“Yeah, really,” I insist. “It’s obvious how important staying in shape is to you.” I bite down on my lip to keep it together, but all hope is lost when he cracks first and starts laughing.
He hooks one giant, muscular arm around my neck and pulls me into his chest. He kisses the top of my head then uses the same tone he does when fucking me to say, “Put your hand over your mouth.”
I don’t ask why. I do it immediately, without question.
Half a second later, I scream into my palm, my right ass cheek burning. If I were to lift up my dress right now, I’m certain there’d be a glowing red handprint.
I’m sure my eyes are as wide as saucers when I look up at him. His lip quirks and he has a satisfied, smug glint in his eyes. He presses his lips to my temple and whispers, “Better watch what you say while this fine ass belongs to me.”
My heart beats wildly, adrenaline racing through me from the unexpected slap. My butt stings eight ways to Sunday, and yet, I find myself replying, “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Gramps.”
He relaxes his arm so it’s loosely slung over my shoulder and laughs. “Let’s go, Horny Hallmark.”
“Horny Hallmark?!” I gasp in mock offense as we start toward the Christmas display. “At least Gramps is kinda cute.”
He feigns innocence. “I thought we were just calling it as we see it.” Then he tugs me a little closer and flashes me a quick, sweet smile.
We walk side by side, his arm wrapped comfortingly around me, to rows and rows of hooks loaded with ornaments and two big tubs labeled clearance.
It doesn’t take long until our hands are full, six ornaments dangling from four of my fingers. A very helpful store clerk offers us a basket and we gratefully off-load them, then restart our treasure hunting.
One of the old ladies from the group shuffles past us then pauses and asks curiously, “Shopping for yourselves?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roman says, flashing a smile that has women of all ages swooning.
“Then don’t bother getting that one. You’ll be gifted at least five.” She winks then continues on.
Roman and I look at each other, confused, then down at the ornament in his hand.
It’s a pewter baby carriage with an embossed banner reading Baby’s First Christmas.
“Oooh,” we say simultaneously, then laugh.
“I was going for this one,” he says and pulls the next ornament off the hook. A giraffe.
My stomach flutters. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure we’re legally obligated to get that.” I shrug like it truly is out of my control.
He nods in agreement, and I catch him smiling as he drops it into our basket.
“Do you have kids?” I blurt out and instantly regret it. This is supposed to be a fun, low-stakes five days. I immediately try to backpedal. “Is that too personal? Ah, never mind—”
“Ren.” Roman stops my anxious rambling. “That perfectly reasonable question is not too personal. You’ve choked on my cock, and I had your pussy for breakfast. As far as I’m concerned, that means you can ask me anything.”
“Oh,” I say flatly, realizing my response was due to Lewis gaslighting me anytime I asked what I also thought were perfectly reasonable questions. Of course, I now know it wasn’t my questions that were too personal. It was him trying to hide the fact that he’s married.
“And the answer is no. I don’t have any children.” He rehangs the pewter carriage. “What about you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t really want kids.”
“Me either,” he says casually. “Though, I’m a little surprised you didn’t ask if I had grandkids first.”
“You’d be one fine grandpa.” I laugh, then it occurs to me that despite all the teasing, I don’t actually know. “How old are you?”
“Forty-seven, which makes me older than you by . . .?”
For an accountant, I’m really bad at doing math in my head. Luckily, I just turned thirty, making it easy. “Seventeen years.”
“Well, for what it’s worth . . .” He sighs dramatically and my stomach drops like a rock. “I think you’d make a damn fine grandma too.”
I exhale my held breath and smack him in the chest, chuckling. “Bastard.”
Once we have a basket full of mixed ornaments, we go to opposite sides of the store to look at the clothing. After a few minutes, Roman texts me.2
You mind coming to the dressing rooms? I want your opinion.
I head to the back of the store where the dressing room area is, a row of curtained stalls stretching to the left and right.
“Roman?”
“Over here,” he calls out.
I walk down the side with his voice, waiting for him to pop his head out or something. Instead, my heart nearly jumps out of my chest when I’m suddenly grabbed through a curtain and strongly yanked into the stall. I yell as loud as I can, but it’s pointless when a palm clamps firmly over my mouth.
1. Play "I Feel Love"—Freya Ridings until indicated
2. Stop playing "I Feel Love"—Freya Ridings