Hillary
MAC STRYKER IS THE hottest man I’ve ever seen in person and that was before he brought me food. He’s a god now.
Of course, that might be the stupid hormones. That is one thing they do talk about in the pregnancy books. I am basically hungry, tired, and horny at all times. Even while sleeping.
Is this cheese...product...supposed to taste this good? It’s basically salt and chemicals, I think. Creamy, rich, wonderful salt and chemicals. The last time someone brought me macaroni and cheese and covered me with a blanket, I was probably about eight. I think it tastes better when you don’t cook it for yourself.
I suppose it would be inappropriate to thank him by crawling onto his lap and rutting against him like the sex-starved lunatic I am. I understand that I am no prize right now. And it will probably be eighteen years until I have time to date once this kid pops out, and then I’ll be old and nobody will want me. I am basically never going to lose my virginity.
Well, the doctor broke my hymen to make my exams easier, but I hardly think that counts.
I moan a little around a forkful of food. Sorry, not sorry.
Mac eyes my baby bump suspiciously. “How long will you keep working?”
That’s a good question. “I hope to work right up until my water breaks, but I guess we’ll have to see how I do closer to term. I need to save as much money as I can so I can take time off after the baby comes. I don’t want to use up my savings before he or she gets here.”
“You don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet? I thought everyone was into those gender reveal parties now.”
My turn to cock an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, how many gender reveal parties have you been to, officer?”
“Technically, that’s Detective Stryker to you. And none. But I do have a Facebook account. And Pinterest.”
“Wait. You have a Pinterest account?”
“Yeah. Same reason I know how to pick a lock.”
“What does picking a lock have to do with Pinterest?”
His face is so tight, like maybe the furrowed ridges in his brow are permanent. “People are basically stupid. I can get a whole lot of information from social media about perps. Where they are, who they’re with, what they like. Dark Tumblr is a place I wouldn’t suggest you spend much time.”
For a grouch, he’s kind of funny. “Noted. Anyway, to answer your gender reveal party question, I want to be surprised.” Aside from Joe and the girls at work, nobody really cares what the gender of my baby is anyway. It’s not like my parents are going to put a sonogram picture on their fridge.
Mac rubs the skin above his hand brace, and his lips press tighter. “Mac, are you hurting right now? You didn’t injure yourself more on my account, did you?”
He blinks his surprise and then realizes where he’s touching. “No, it’s fine.”
I don’t want to pull information he doesn’t want to give, but I’m so curious.
“I’m off work for a while,” he says quietly. “Until the hand heals...” There’s more he’s not saying.
“I’m sorry.”
Oh, wherever he’s going in his head is a painful place. I think maybe the conversation is over when he surprises me by saying, “I missed one.”
“Missed one what?”
“Explosive. It went off at my last call. I got hit with debris and fucked up my hand. If it doesn’t heal, I can’t defuse bombs with it anymore.”
Wow. I can pour a decent cup of coffee, but this guy defuses bombs and makes pregnant women macaroni and cheese. He’s got to be a shoe-in for Heaven. But his frown lines deepen, and I realize he doesn’t think so. “You feel responsible. About the bomb going off.”
“It was my job to find them all. Stop them before anyone got hurt.” He leans against the back of the couch. “Christ. I’m supposed to be talking about this with my group, not unloading it all on you.”
I curl toward him more, moving into the space that separates us. “Baristas are like bartenders. I’m good at listening.”
“This isn’t me. I’m not a talker.” There is real pain in his eyes. It finally distracts me from my horniness and propels me right into nurturing mode. I put my hand on his cheek, the stubble scruffs my hand. I hardly know him. I shouldn’t be touching him like this.
Asking him to bare his soul to me.
“Hey,” I say anyway. “You shouldn’t feel responsible.”
“My best friend died that day. Because I missed one.”
“No. Mac. No. Your best friend died because a criminal rigged up a bomb. You can’t take all that on.”
His breathing is shallow. “Can’t I? Christ. Why am I telling you this?”
“Because we’re friends now.”
“Are we? I’ve never had a woman friend before.”
“I don’t think it’s that different. Do you?”
The way he looks at my belly, like he suspects it’s another bomb he might be responsible for, is kind of endearing and a little dorky. “I think it might be different. I think it just might be.”