CHAPTER ONE
Olivia
December 24
WE’RE KISSING IN THE COAT CLOSET. The coat closet. I’m up against the back wall, his hands are braced on either side of my head, and his mouth is locked hot and deep against mine. My ponytail is slipping from the clasp, my fingers are gripping his shoulders, and I’m lost in the sweet, aching cascade of pleasure.
Dean pushes his leg between mine, moving to pull up my knee-length dress and cup his hand around the back of my thigh. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip. Arousal billows between us, a relief after the simmering tension of the past two hours.
Every time I sought him out amidst the holiday festivities, I found him watching me. Every time our eyes met, sparks of electricity spun through the air. Every time I saw him maneuver through the crowd, my heart beat faster.
We circled each other like prowling cats as we moved through the bright rooms of Langdon House, a historic Victorian mansion adorned with colorful Christmas trees, fresh green garlands, and vintage decorations.
We navigated clusters of people, the women all decked out in sparkly holiday gowns, the men in expensive suits and ties. We drifted in and out of conversations with other guests, then found each other again and exchanged looks of heated promise.
Until he caught me in the foyer beside the walk-in coat closet, curling his hand around my arm as he guided me inside and shut the door behind him. My pulse leapt when he came toward me, backing me up against the wall and penning me into the cage of his arms the instant before his mouth crashed down on mine.
I don’t know how long we’ve been here. I don’t care. My world has distilled to this space. There is only the press of his body, the solid bulk of his chest, the mingling of our breath. The scents of pine, cinnamon, and apples cling to the air. A narrow remnant of light shines beneath the door. Laughter and conversation drift through the walls.
I rub my hands over the ridges of his torso, feel the heat burning through his shirt. He moves his mouth to my cheek, down to my neck. My dress is pushed up to my waist.
Dean grips my thighs, which are covered in sheer nylons. He growls with frustration when he discovers the tight spandex panties.
He lifts his head, his gaze colliding with mine before he grabs the flimsy nylon at the seam and rips it away. My heart throbs.
“Take this off.” He plucks at the spandex with a frown of impatience.
“Good thing they’re not control-top,” I remark breathlessly, pushing the waistband over my hips and halfway down my thighs.
“What the hell is control-top?” He eases his hand underneath my cotton underwear and groans. “Oh, fuck. Never mind.”
His fingers probe deeper into my cleft. I gasp, clutching the front of his shirt, urgency spooling into my blood. He slips his forefinger into me, stroking the heel of his hand against my clit.
“Come on, beauty,” he whispers, his breath a hot trail to my ear.
He slides his lips to the pulse pounding at the side of my neck, then works another finger into my body to stroke my inner flesh.
I arch toward him, straining, my sex throbbing. A cry of pleasure lodges in my throat, poised to escape, when suddenly Dean clamps his hand over my mouth. He pushes me to the right, back through a curtain of woolen coats to the side wall. Light floods the closet a second after I realize the doorknob has clicked open.
I tighten my hold on Dean’s shirtfront. He eases his hand from my mouth, our hard breaths thankfully masked by the sound of chattery voices.
“Did you try those salmon rolls?” one of the women asks. “They’re new on the catering menu.”
“Oh, yes. So light and delicious. I think we ought to hire the same caterers for the spring festival, don’t you?”
I know those women. Members of the Historical Society board of trustees, Florence and Ruth Wickham are two lovely older ladies who wear pastel-colored suits and pearl necklaces and would no doubt be horrified to find me half-naked in the back of the coat closet.
“Do you remember where I put my coat?” Florence asks her sister. “Did I tell you I found it on sale at that little boutique on Dandelion Street? Pure camelhair.”
The air is stifling back here. A fur collar from one of the hanging coats brushes against my neck. I push it away impatiently. I’m still throbbing, frustrated at having my arousal thwarted.
Then Dean presses his knee between my legs, spreading my thighs. I jerk my gaze to his lust-filled eyes. A wicked grin tugs at his mouth as he puts his hand against my sex again.
I seize his wrist, acutely aware of the little old ladies still rummaging around for their camelhair coats… but he twists from my grip and flicks his thumb against my clit. I suck in a breath, melting at my core.
He lowers his mouth to mine again, one hand steadying me at the small of my back, the other working me with deliberate intent. I part my lips beneath his and fall into the cascade again. His touch grows more intimate, sliding deep into my opening, his thumb swirling and rubbing and…
I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. It’s been far too long, and even this furtive, hasty rendezvous in the middle of a holiday party is like gulping cold lemonade on a blistering day. I try to suppress a moan and let my head fall back against the wall as his tongue slides against mine.
One more stroke of his fingers, and bursts of rapture explode along my nerves. He muffles my cries with the pressure of his mouth. I grab his shoulders, my legs weakening with the force of vibrations flooding me from head to toe.
I pull back and stare at him, my blood pulsing. He’s still fully clothed, his heavy erection pressing against the front of his trousers. Though the coats block the closet light, I can see the burn of his eyes. His dark hair is a mess, a thick swath falling over his forehead, his sharp cheekbones flushed. We’re both still breathing hard, and neither of us moves.
“Oh, here it is! Look, isn’t that Shirley’s coat?” Florence’s voice grows distant as she moves back toward the door. “She said it was lynx fur. Can you imagine? Heavens, but it is soft, isn’t it? Feel it.”
Ruth murmurs her agreement, then finally the light turns off and the door closes.
“We should go,” I whisper.
“I’ll go first.” Dean touches my cheek. “I’ll let you know if the coast is clear.”
We wait a few more minutes to give us both time to compose ourselves. We straighten our clothing, then fumble around to find my purse and his suit jacket, both of which have fallen to the floor. I manage to get my nylons back around my hips, concealing the rip beneath the swirl of my dress, and reach up to smooth Dean’s hair away from his forehead.
“Wait here.” He presses a kiss to my lips and ducks out of the closet. A second later, there’s a quick knock at the door.
I hurry out, unable to prevent a smile as our gazes meet fleetingly in the foyer. I feel like we’re a couple of horny teenagers sneaking out from under the bleachers.
It’s a good feeling and not one I’ve experienced much—the pleasure of a sneaky rendezvous, furtive groping, secret kisses—all so blissful now because I can share them again with my husband.
I cross the foyer to the bathroom and do a quick primping to straighten out my very disheveled self. I comb my long hair back into its ponytail, splash water on my face in the hopes of dimming the heated flush, reapply my lipstick, and try to smooth the wrinkles from my dress.
Dean is gone from the foyer by the time I emerge, likely to deal with his own rumpled appearance. I head for the refreshment table that’s been set up in the living room and pick up a bottle of mineral water.
“Oh, there you are, dear.”
I look up and find myself face to face with Florence Wickham, belted into her camelhair coat and tugging on a pair of leather gloves.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye and wishing you a merry Christmas, Olivia,” she says. “We’ve so appreciated all your volunteering with the Historical Museum and the preparations for the holiday festival.”
“I’ve greatly enjoyed it.”
Florence peers at me through eyes adorned with beige eyeshadow and mascara. I hope to heaven that my cheeks aren’t still overly flushed. Or that Dean didn’t leave a hickey on my neck.
“Don’t forget to take a present from beneath the tree in the parlor,” Florence continues. “All the gifts were donated by local merchants, and there are some lovely items.” She pulls at the wrists of her gloves. “Where is that handsome gentleman you came with?”
“I think he’s talking to someone in the kitchen.”
“Is he your husband?” Florence arches a delicately plucked eyebrow, her gaze skirting to my left hand.
“Yes.” I extend my hand to show her the antique cameo on my left ring finger. “It was my engagement ring.”
I wear the cameo alongside my wedding band only on special occasions, but no other symbol in the world could serve as a more meaningful declaration that I belong to one man alone.
“I love cameos.” Florence peers at the ring. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“If I may be so bold, Olivia…” She leans closer and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your husband is quite dashing, but his adventurous spirit is… well, it makes him just irresistible.”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
“My dear, I’m seventy-three years old,” Florence says. “And in fifty-two years of marriage, I wish that my husband had even once shagged me in a coat closet.”
She winks at me, then turns and walks away. Through the burn of embarrassment, I can’t help smiling.
I picture myself at seventy-three, thinking back to all the sexy things Dean and I have done over the years.
Remember that time in the coat closet during a holiday party…?
Heck, we might even still be going at it, for all I know. Certainly we have a lot of time left… I’m almost thirty, he’s thirty-eight… which gives us plenty of years to indulge.
Provided we can fix everything that’s broken in the past four months.
Tension winds through me. I press a hand to my belly.
“Come home with me.” Dean’s deep voice rumbles across my skin.
Home with me. Where I belong.
I turn to face my husband. Aside from his wrinkled suit jacket, he looks unruffled with his hair gleaming under the lights, his black eyebrows and thick-lashed eyes emphasizing the angles of his jaw. His usual air of self-possession surrounds him, like a suit tailored just for his lean, muscular body. As his gaze meets mine, his eyes fill with warmth.
I know that look. A new tingle of pleasure sparks down to my toes as he takes my hand and we head back to the coat closet—this time to actually retrieve our coats. I take a wrapped present from beneath the gift tree. We say our goodbyes to the various members of the Historical Society before heading out into the late-afternoon dusk.
The town of Mirror Lake is sheathed in a fresh layer of snow. Fat, jolly Santas, Christmas trees, and happy reindeer plaster the windows of the downtown shops. Strings of multicolored lights twinkle around lampposts, windowsills, and awnings. Wind gusts from the frozen lake, which sits like a huge, porcelain platter at the base of white-capped mountains.
We walk toward Dean’s car parked at the curb, and he opens the passenger side door for me. We return home to our two-bedroom apartment above a row of shops on Avalon Street. We pass clusters of last-minute Christmas shoppers, excited children, and several holiday vendors selling popcorn and roasted chestnuts.
As I precede Dean up the stairs to our apartment, he reaches out to run his hand over the curve of my rear. I glance over my shoulder at him.
“Left you high and dry, didn’t I?” I ask, unlocking the door.
“You did indeed. Not that I’m complaining.”
The instant he closes the door behind us, I turn to meet his imminent kiss. This time, there’s no need for haste or furtiveness. We shed our coats slowly with our mouths still locked together, then he backs me up toward the bedroom.
It’s been more than three heartbreaking weeks since we’ve even kissed. After our marital troubles of recent months culminated in an ugly fight, I left to go and stay with our friend Kelsey March. Only yesterday did Dean and I begin to make tentative steps toward reconciliation.
I’ve missed him terribly. Everything about him—the caress of his breath, the sound of his voice, the strength of his muscular body—reminds me how good things can be between us and how much I still love him.
He takes the back of my neck in his hand, angling my head to deepen the pressure of his kiss. My bones weaken as desire spreads from the pit of my belly through my veins. I curl my hands around his arms, sinking into the beauty of our togetherness.
“Take off your clothes,” Dean whispers.
He lifts his head, sliding his palm against my cheek as he steps away from me. Lust brews in his eyes as he watches me hook my fingers into the stretchy material of my dress and pull it over my head. I tug off my torn nylons, feeling Dean’s gaze sweeping over my cleavage enclosed by my cotton bra. A trace of nervousness nudges at me. It feels like a lifetime has passed since I’ve been naked in front of my husband.
He nods toward my bra. “Let me see.”
My heart hammers. I twist the front clasp of my bra and push it off my shoulders. Cool air brushes my skin. Dean’s breath escapes him in a rush, his gaze a caress over my full breasts and taut nipples. He crooks a finger at me. I take a few steps toward him, tingles raining through me as he cups my breasts in his big, warm hands.
I love this. Love the way he touches me, rubbing his hands beneath my breasts, and then up again to twist my nipples gently between his fingers. Excitement pools in me, centering in my lower body.
“Did you think about us?” I ask as he moves his hand down over my belly and beneath my panties to the tangle of curls between my legs.
“Every night.” He eases his forefinger into my sex. “Missed you so damn much. Thought about you riding me, sucking me, on your hands and knees…”
A shudder rocks me when he rubs my clit. “I… I thought about all that too.”
Images of the fantasies I’d had about us during the long weeks of our separation flash through my mind. Fantasies even hotter than the ones I’d had about him when we first met. I spread my palm over the rigid length of his erection and move closer to nudge my breasts against him.
He lowers his head, stroking his hands down my back to grasp my rear and hold me against him. Our bodies press together, the cotton of his shirt further sensitizing my nipples.
After another long, deep kiss, I move backward and reach down to tug off my panties. Already my body is craving release again. Dean rakes his eyes over my nakedness, the burn of his gaze making my skin prickle with urgency. I kneel on the bed and gesture for him to lie down beside me. Still clothed, he does.
I straddle his waist, running my hands over the front of his shirt, feeling his body heat through the material, the heavy beat of his heart. Unfastening the buttons, I rub his muscular chest, the ridges of his abdomen, down to the waistband of his trousers.
I unbuckle his belt and slip the leather out with a rasp. The metal buckle clanks as it lands on the floor. His erection pushes against the front of his trousers, and I make quick work of the zipper to release his beautiful, thick cock.
My breath quickens. I shift to the side so I can pull his trousers and boxers off and drop them to the floor. He’s watching me, his chest rising and falling with his own rapid breaths.
I grasp his shaft and lower my head to take him in my mouth. He tangles his fingers in my hair. The taste of him floods me. I close my eyes and breathe, tightening my fingers around him. He pushes his hips upward. I put a hand over his hipbones to keep him in place.
I can feel his tension, his urge to thrust. He wants to fuck my mouth, but he won’t. Not yet. After a moment of adjustment, I slide my mouth over him, stroking my tongue over the pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft. My heartbeat resounds in my ears, a renewed arousal coursing through me.
I wrap my fingers around his cock and pump, keeping my lips sealed around the tip. Dean fists his hand in my hair. A groan rumbles from his chest. Strain coils through his muscles. I take him in deep again, my hair falling across his thighs, his stomach.
I sense it instinctively, that moment when his control is on the verge of breaking. I move off him, our gazes clashing with hot understanding. He grabs my waist and rolls me onto my back, nudging my legs apart with his knee.
In one movement, he sinks into me, the sudden hard length of his cock jarring a cry from my throat. “Dean!”
“Oh, fuck, Liv…” He shifts, muttering another curse as restraint winds through him. He pushes his hands beneath my thighs. “So damn good.”
I writhe beneath him, my breath scorching my lungs. The impact of his thrusts shake my body, the buttons of his open shirt gliding deliciously over my damp skin. I grip his shoulders, seeking his mouth with mine, wrapping my legs around his hips to lock our bodies together.
I’ve spent the last weeks craving exactly this—the press of my husband’s powerful body against mine, the full weight of him on top of me. I’ve longed for him to take me, reclaim me, promise me I will always be his. I’ve been desperate to surrender to him again.
He pulls out, pushes forward, again, again, until we’re rocking and thrusting in an exhilarating rhythm that is both familiar and gloriously new. I clench around his cock, the friction sparking excitement over my nerves.
I need no other stimulation except my man on top of me, stroking me from the inside. Bliss explodes in a collision of stars at the same instant that Dean pushes so deep I feel him in my bones. His groan vibrates against my skin as he comes inside me, his fingers gripping my thighs.
“Christ.” He rolls off me and we lie there, gasping as we catch our breath, still cocooned in the haze of lust.
I push to one elbow, turning to face him. He looks beautiful, sated, with his shirt open and wrinkled, his skin damp with sweat. He pulls the shirt off and drops it to the floor.
“Come here,” he says.
I curl my body against his, gliding my hand across his abdomen.
This is easy. If we could fix everything by pleasuring each other, we’d already be back in a place where there are no doubts, no mistrust. No fear. But as good as sex has always been between us, we both know it’s not enough. I don’t know what will be enough.
“Dean…”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Liv.” He tightens his arm around me and brushes his mouth against my temple. “Right now I want you naked against me. I want to wake up cold because you’ve hogged all the blankets. I want to feel your leg between mine, your hair in my face, your arm flung across my chest. I want to find myself on the edge of the bed in the morning because you’ve sprawled all over the mattress. I want to sleep with you.”
I move closer to him and tuck my face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Breathe in the scent of his skin. Feel his heart beating against my palm. This, at last, is right where we both belong.
Christmas morning. The sheets are a cocoon of softness, warm from the heat of my husband’s body beside me. I turn to look at the clock. Four a.m.
I’ve rarely woken early on Christmas morning. As a child, I hardly had a chance to believe in Santa Claus. I have a vague memory of being five years old, my father still alive, my parents still together. That was perhaps the last time I fell asleep on Christmas Eve with the excited expectation that there would be presents beneath the tree the next morning.
Now I’m wide awake. I press a hand to my stomach. I listen to the rhythmic sound of Dean’s breathing. I think of my mother and wonder where she is.
I ease closer to Dean and run my hand over his chest, down to his abdomen. I gaze at his face, all masculine planes and angles offset by his dark eyebrows. I brush my fingers over the rough whiskers lining his jaw. He shifts, his eyes opening. Beautiful eyes, chocolate-brown and laced with golden flecks like hidden treasures.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper. My whole body eases with the knowledge of how right it feels to be beside him again. How completely wrong our separation was.
“Nice to wake up and see you here,” he says.
“Nice to wake up and be here.” I hold up my left hand, palm out. “Remember?”
“I remember.”
He puts his left palm against mine. Our wedding bands make a soft click as they touch, then I slide my hand over so our palms align. We twine our fingers together. Dean rolls to his back and pulls me against his side, our linked hands resting on his chest.
“Did you ever make any travel plans for winter break?” I ask. “You’d talked about wanting to get away. Someplace warm, maybe.”
“I wouldn’t make plans without you. But we have time, if you want to go somewhere. The spring semester doesn’t start until February.”
“No.” I rub my cheek against his shoulder. “I just want to stay here with you.”
He kisses my forehead. “Hey, I haven’t had a chance to tell you my good news.”
“Tell me.”
“You know that fellowship from the Institute for Historical Research? Because of the success of the Medieval Studies program, the IHR committee recommended me to the board of directors. Found out last week that they awarded me a five-year grant.”
I lift my head to stare at him. IHR grant recipients are the most respected, renowned scholars in their field, given the coveted award for their outstanding contributions to research. Every scholar wants an IHR grant, but only an exceptional few are chosen.
“Oh, Dean.” My voice catches. “That’s wonderful.”
He looks both pleased and slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s a pretty big deal.”
“No one deserves it more.” I give him a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Comes with a hefty stipend too, which never hurts.”
“With this kind of award, King’s is bound to give you tenure soon.”
Which means that his position at King’s University will be permanent, and Mirror Lake really will be… home.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. I spent most of my childhood, most of my life before Dean, feeling displaced and unsettled. I never thought I’d find a place that would feel like home. Even now, the idea of living in the same town for the foreseeable future, of calling Mirror Lake our home, seems strange.
“Some professors do get tenure after a short time, but I’ve only been at King’s a couple of years.” Dean shrugs. “Still, the grant is great for both my career and the department.”
“And us.”
“Always us.”
I smile, both happy and not surprised by my husband’s seemingly endless accolades. I ease away from him and push the covers aside. “Just for that, I’ll even make the coffee this morning.”
I feel the heat of his gaze as I climb out of bed. Awareness slides through me, so welcome after the strain of recent weeks.
I catch sight of Dean’s wrinkled shirt lying on the floor. I pull it over my shoulders and slip my arms into the sleeves. The familiar scents of shaving soap and Dean himself cling to the material. I button the shirt and roll up the sleeves, loving how the sensation of the cotton folds is like a memory of my husband enveloping me.
I go to take a pair of panties out of my dresser.
“No,” Dean orders, watching the curves of my breasts beneath the shirt.
The burn in his eyes makes my nipples harden. The sheets are tangled around his legs, exposing his muscled chest and torso, the tantalizing line of hair disappearing beneath the edge of the sheet. Now more than ever, he takes my breath away.
I shiver, aware of the lingering dampness of my sex, the pulsing in my blood. I can still feel him between my legs, a faint throb that reminds me with every step of how deeply he fucked me.
“You want me indecent?” I ask.
“Yes.”
He slides his gaze to my bare legs. Already desire is unfurling inside me again, like a bright purple streamer.
I drop the panties back into the drawer and go to brush my hair and teeth. I peer at myself in the mirror, pleased to see that I look exactly the way I’m supposed to—a tousled, well-satisfied woman whose eyes hold the expectation of even more marital bliss.
After splashing water on my face, I head into the living room. I switch on the Christmas tree lights, then go to make coffee.
It’s a cold morning. I turn up the thermostat and look out the window. Puddles of light spill from the streetlamps lining Avalon Street. No new snow, but the promise of it clings to the air.
“Did you check under the tree for a present?” Dean is standing in the bedroom doorway, his chest bare and pajama bottoms slung low on his hips.
“Yes, but you weren’t under there.”
He grins. It’s the old, hint-of-wicked Dean grin that I haven’t seen in far too long, and it melts any wariness still threading my heart. I go to peer underneath the tree. A large box wrapped in blue paper and a red ribbon is pushed behind the tree and concealed by the branches. A smaller box sits on top of it.
“Dean, what…”
“Don’t lift them. They’re heavy.”
He nods toward the sofa for me to sit down, then picks up the boxes and puts them on the coffee table in front of me. The big red ribbons are perfectly tied.
“When did you get these?” I ask.
“About a week ago. Open them.”
I tug the ribbon and tape off the bigger box. Slowly I peel the paper away and stare at the contents. It’s a set of gorgeous, top-of-the-line, stainless-steel cookware—two frying pans, a sauté pan, two saucepans, and a stockpot.
“This… this must have cost a fortune.”
“If you’re going to cook well, you need the best equipment.”
Tears sting my eyes as I open the smaller box to reveal an eleven-piece set of exceptional Shun knives.
Cookware and culinary knives. Maybe not romantic to anyone else, but no other gift from my husband could say more. And he bought them a week ago, before our still-fragile reconciliation.
“Thank you.” I look up at him. “Thank you so much.”
He reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Well, if you cook, I get to eat. It’s a win-win.”
“I didn’t get you a present.”
“Yeah, you did.” He bends to kiss my forehead.
Ah, lovely warmth. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my mouth against his hard, ridged torso. He tangles his fingers in my hair and laughs.
“Careful.”
“I love you.” I squeeze his very nice rear, then pull away to gather the torn wrapping paper. “Thank you.”
“Now you have to make me eggs and bacon for breakfast.”
I open the cookware box to take out a shiny frying pan. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir, huh?” He winks at me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
It takes me an hour to get breakfast going because I have to read all the instructions on how to wash and care for the cookware and the knives. Since it almost seems like a shame to use such expensive equipment for a meal as mundane as scrambled eggs, I get out a flowered linen tablecloth and set the table with white plates and cloth napkins.
Then I fry the bacon and scramble the eggs with some parmesan cheese and dried basil. It’s unexpectedly sexy to be making breakfast for my husband while wearing only his shirt and nothing else.
I fill Dean’s mug with coffee, then take a pad of paper and draw:
I stick the note to the mug as Dean approaches the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Wow,” he remarks. “Smells good in here.”
“You’ve done it now.” I hand him the mug. “You’ll never get me out of the kitchen.”
“I never want you out of the bedroom either, but I’m open to negotiation.” He reads the note and smiles, leaning over to kiss me. “Great drawing.”
I pat his cheek, then set our food on the table while Dean sits down. When I return to the table with a plate of toast, there’s a note beside my fork.
I laugh. “Lovely sentiment, but why did you draw a picture of a smiling butt?”
“A what?”
“A smiling butt.” I hold out the note.
“That’s a coffee bean.”
“Oh.” I squint at the picture. “Well, I guess I finally found something you can’t do very well.”
He frowns. “I’ll have you know I used to draw intricate comic books when I was a kid.”
“Of course you did.” I put the note on the table and sit down. “Superhero knights, right?”
“Captain Lancelot Versus Dr. Mordred was my most epic work.”
I smile. My white knight. Both tenderness and heat soften my heart as I look at him, all rumpled masculinity with stubble coating his jaw and his hair curling over his ears. He meets my gaze, a responding warmth filling his eyes.
I pick up my mug to take a sip of coffee. Dean reaches across the table to take the cup away from me.
“What…?”
“We’ll have to buy some decaf,” he says. “You’re not supposed to have caffeine when you’re pregnant.”
Crap. I forgot. There’s probably a lot of things I’m not supposed to do now that I’m pregnant.
I eye Dean with a touch of wariness. As unnerving as it is to admit, I know that neither of us is ready for a baby.
I started thinking about having a baby a few months ago, but then everything went to hell between me and Dean. I found out he’d kept a previous marriage a secret from me, one that involved three miscarriages and a bitter divorce.
Then in the midst of my own confusion and hurt, I made the mistake of kissing the man who was teaching a cooking class I’d enrolled in. Dean and I have barely gotten past all that, let alone figured out whether we want children.
Too late for that now.
We haven’t talked about the pregnancy since I discovered it only yesterday. I haven’t even processed the idea, and probably neither has Dean. Especially since just the subject of a baby caused conflict between us, not to mention that we hadn’t agreed to try…
My stomach knots with apprehension and guilt. I rub the scar on my left hand, the physical evidence of how wrong things went between me and my husband. Dean glances at the movement. His mouth tightens.
“So, um, how about that?” I pick up my fork. “I’m pregnant.”
“How do you feel?”
“Fine, actually. I only checked because I missed my period. I should make an appointment with Dr. Nolan, I guess. I know she handles prenatal care and delivery, in addition to family practice.” I can’t read Dean’s expression. I can’t make sense of the sudden jumble of emotions crowding my chest. “Will you go with me to the appointment?”
“Of course I’ll go with you.” A crease appears between his eyebrows. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t know.” I poke at the eggs with my fork. “I’ll call Dr. Nolan tomorrow, if the office is open.”
I sense his gaze on me and glance up at him. He puts his hand on my arm.
“I’ll take care of you, Liv,” he says. “No, we didn’t plan on having a baby right now. Yes, we’re still getting back on our feet. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make this easy for you. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’ll do it. We’re going to be fine.”
His voice is a deep caress of certainty. Though I’m grateful for his assurance, I’m aware that I don’t share it. Yet.
“We’ll talk to the doctor first and go from there,” Dean says. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
I squeeze his hand and we finish eating our breakfast. We spend a quiet day together—we clean the kitchen, play Scrabble, make love again, watch a movie. Dean does some work in his office, and I wash and organize the rest of my new cooking equipment. I also open the present from the holiday party, which turns out to be a gift certificate for one of my favorite places in Mirror Lake—an old-fashioned tearoom called Matilda’s Teapot.
“Do you want to pick up the rest of your things from Kelsey’s?” Dean comes into the kitchen, looking scruffy and delicious in torn jeans and a faded T-shirt.
I close the cupboard door and turn to face him. I don’t want to ask the question, but I have to. “Do you think… do you think maybe it’s too soon?”
“No, I don’t think it’s too soon.” He frowns. “Do you think it’s too soon?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “As much as I miss you, with this pregnancy now and… well, everything else...”
“I want you to come home, Liv.”
“I know. I want to come home, too.” I’m also scared to come home. Scared of what we have to deal with, scared of hurting each other again, scared that things won’t be the same as they once were.
Dean moves closer and tugs me into his arms. My whole body weakens as I press my forehead against his chest and breathe in his familiar scent. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and kneads the tense muscles.
“You need to come home,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Are you scared?”
“Not about us.” Dean pulls back to take my face in his hands. “Remember winter break of the first year we met?”
Desire uncoils in my blood as I look into his eyes. He is imprinted in my bones, my soul. He has marked me in ways more permanent than time.
“I remember,” I breathe. Two weeks that changed me forever.
“That’s what we’re going to do again.” Dean brushes his thumb across my lips. “You and I. No one else.”
We both want this so badly. I can feel it resonating between us like the hot pull of our first attraction, tangible and intense. We want our marriage to be a haven of warmth and pleasure again. We want our pure lustiness back, untainted by fear and mistrust. We want the unending spirals of bliss we can create only with each other. We want to shut the rest of the world out while locking ourselves in together. We want to be united in this pregnancy and impending parenthood.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, Dean slides his palm down to my belly. I put my hand over his.
“We’re going to have to read a lot of books,” I say.
“My life’s work involves reading books.”
“We’ll probably have to take some classes.”
“I’m at my best in a classroom.”
“And I hear we’ll need to buy a ton of stuff.”
“We can afford stuff.”
I look up into his chocolate-brown eyes.
“I just wish I knew where to start,” I whisper.
“Right here, beauty.” And he presses his lips to mine.