Six weeks. Four days. And seven hours.

That's how long it's been since my world flipped on its axis. Ms. Murphy has distanced herself from me these past few weeks, but that's fine by me. I needed distance. One night, I nearly forgot that. I nearly forgot myself. But we've settled into our roles with one another.

I go with her to my sister's office for our biweekly visits and watch the sonogram in complete awe as my baby develops within her womb. It's hard ... keeping that wall erected between us. Because I know if we had met under other circumstances, I'd be attracted to her. Possibly even pursue her. But the reminder of our arrangement is never far from my mind.

She's vulnerable in her current state. Emotionally unstable and experiencing changes within her body that are unfamiliar to her––scary even. To take advantage of her in her current state would be callous.

But still, I yearn.

Just like any man, I crave a connection with the one I spend my time with. I think of her, more often than not, and my thoughts are not always pure. No, quite the opposite. I wake up in the mornings with a need so strong that I find myself stroking off in the shower like a teenage boy who's just figured out morning wood is good for something besides pissing.

It doesn't help that she likes to walk around the house in long t-shirts with her bare legs on open display for my hungry eyes. It also doesn't help that her breasts have swelled and have become so tender that she refuses to wear a bra around the house. Her pert nipples are always ripe and begging to be suckled.

I shift and try to subtly adjust myself beneath the table. Kara has taken to cooking breakfast every morning. She insists that I sit down and have breakfast and dinner with her. She's trying to learn about me and my family, and I guess, in a way, I'm trying to understand her too.

Who is this beautiful woman sitting across from me? I know she's had a rough past, but she hides behind so much more beneath the surface. She doesn't know it, but sometimes I ask her questions just to listen to the sweet Southern lilt of her voice. When she's animatedly telling me a story, her accent becomes more pronounced and her true beauty shines through.

She's a humble person. She doesn't live a high-maintenance lifestyle, and when I suggest she book an appointment for a day at the spa, she gapes at me as if I've asked her to recite the Chinese alphabet.

"What?" I ask, confused by her reaction.

Her brow furrows in deep thought, and her eyes bounce around the room, taking in everything and seeing nothing at the same time before finally focusing back on me. "I ... I've never been to a spa," she states with an embarrassed shade of red coloring her pale cheeks.

"It's not like I suggested a Brazilian bikini wax." Her horrified expression causes me to laugh. My head thrown back and my hand clutching my stomach.

Her face twists in mock anger, and she begins letting loose on me. "That's not funny, you big brute. Not all us have lived privileged lives."

At her offended expression, I laugh even harder and tears run down my cheeks. I raise a finger and point at her, my words coming out between bouts of laughter. "You ... should ... see ... your ... face." I double over and try to collect myself, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand.

I rise back up, my laughter dying down, and situate myself in my chair before casting a glance at her. Sure enough, she's scowling, and it's so damn adorable. "I can't help it. You're easily riled, and I can't resist causing that adorable pout on your face." I grin mischievously.

She blushes to her roots and gives a shy smile, tucking her chin down and looking down at her lap. "I don't know why I let you get me all fired up." She looks up at me under her long blond lashes and flashes a timid smile.

I can't help the face-splitting grin that overcomes me. These past few days with her have been fun. I've woken up to find her cooking a different breakfast every day, and each dish is more delicious than the one before. I enjoy chatting with her about her life, my life with Sophia, and the future of the baby she now carries.

It's an unconventional friendship, but I believe it's a friendship nonetheless.

Oddly enough, I find a slight comfort in that thought instead of an overwhelming fear.

* * *

Sometimes, it would be better if he were an asshole. This charming Will Scott is completely unsettling to my nerves. I don't know how or when it happened, but one day he just started being nice to me and treating me like a friend instead of a human incubator for his spawn. It's a refreshing change of pace, and I, for one, am grateful for it.

Will doesn't know it, but I started taking cooking classes at the Women Helping Women shelter. We meet twice a week, and outside of cooking classes, it's therapeutic to talk with women who have been through similar hardships.

The shelter is a large brownstone house on the other side of the city, just outside the low-income housing projects. But it's nice, comforting, and I've connected with the women who live there. They've helped me in more ways than I could ever repay them for. From learning how to cook to computer skills classes, I'm learning as much as I can.

After I have the baby, I'd like to go back and finish my art degree so that I can teach art to underprivileged children. The kids without parents are the ones who I want to give an outlet to. I want to teach them they can create a world where there’s nothing but beauty. No hate. No lies. No darkness. Only light, beauty, and love.

Most have lost all semblance of innocence, so the least I can do is show them how to capture that which has been taken from them. Their hopes can live on a canvas until they become tangible enough to grab.

Just as music is known to do, art offers escape to those seeking a world outside their reality. A world where they can live out their fantasies with the stroke of a brush. I've never felt freer of the world around me than when I hold a brush in my hand and feel the stroke as it meets the canvas. That feeling ... that sensation ... is instantly satisfying on levels that nothing else compares to.

I've seen some of the kids at the WHW shelter but haven't had the opportunity to begin teaching them. I'll need to become more familiar with the women and the caseworkers before I take that next step. I don't even know if an art class would be something they'd entertain allowing me to teach. After all, art supplies aren't cheap.

"Where'd you go?" Will asks, leaning over and waving his hand in front of my face.

I shake my head and give a smile. "Sorry. I was thinking about something."

He quirks a brow. "Care to share?"

When I don't answer, he calmly says, "Listen, I don't ask where it is that you go during the days because it's none of my business. Do I worry ... yes. But I try not to let that filter over into your day. I respect the fact that you have things that you don't want to share with me." He reaches over and slides his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face up so I have to look him in the eye. "But I'd really appreciate it if you could learn to trust me in the same manner. You're free to come and go as you please."

"I know. It's just that ...”

"What? You're afraid I'll judge you?"

I nod, my eyes hidden behind my lashes as I look down at my lap and fidget with a string on my sleeve. He gently nudges my chin again for me to look back up at him. When my eyes lock onto his, I see no judgement lingering in their depths. Just honest curiosity and maybe a slight need to understand me. I know I confuse him with my half-truths and the secrets he's aware I'm hiding from him, but he never pushes me for answers. He never asks the questions that I dread having to form an answer for. He just accepts me.

"It's a battered women's shelter. I go there twice a week to speak with counselors and volunteer for whatever they need help with. I was thinking about asking them if they'd be interested in having me teach art to the kids. But art supplies aren't cheap, so it'll probably be outside their budgetary means.”

He rises from his chair and walks toward the mud room. My eyes narrow as I lean back in my chair, trying to see where he went. When he comes back into the room, he's carrying his phone and his wallet, keys dangling from his finger. "You ready?"

"W-w-w-what?" I stutter, completely taken aback by his gesture.

He points toward the door that leads to the garage. "Let's go. I'll take you wherever you need to go to purchase supplies. It's on me."

At my confused expression, he chuckles a little and then takes me by the arm and walks me to the steps. "Go on upstairs and change clothes. It's still a little chilly out, so dress warmly."

I nod, in somewhat of a stupor, as I walk up the stairs and to my room to throw on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose fitting jeans.

* * *

I've been trying to find out what it is that she does while I'm at work during the week, but the woman is intensely private. When she finally confessed that she'd been spending her time at a battered women's group home, my chest physically ached that she needed such support. The thought of a man putting his hands on her in anger and inflicting bodily harm sends my blood surging through my veins. Anger, fear, and the fierce need to protect her wreaks havoc on my normally calm demeanor.

I know she's only going to live in my home for the next eight months, but where will she go after that? Will she go back to the man who caused her so much pain? I'd like to think not. I'm hoping she'll use the money she's earned from our arrangement to afford a better lifestyle. She deserves so much better than what life has dealt her. She deserves to be loved and cared for and to have a family of her own. Anything less just wouldn't be acceptable.

But what really bothers me is the fact she's still not comfortable enough to talk to me about her past relationship. She never mentions him by name or even makes reference to their relationship. She just tries to hide her pain from the world and me. But I can see through the veil she's cloaked herself in. I can see the unbridled spirit in her begging to be set free. The woman who needs to be made love to long into the night. The heart that needs sweet words of love and longing whispered in her ear until she falls asleep in a lover’s embrace.

That's what I envision for her. I want happiness to take a leading role in her life. She's had enough pain and hardship. It's time she caught a break and enjoyed her life as much as those around her. She's too precious to view life from the outside in.

* * *

It takes us about twenty minutes to reach an art store. When Kara walks in, her eyes go round as saucers. It's not just an art store; it's also a gallery. Some of the local artists sell their paintings in here. Some well-known. Some not. But all them are spectacular in their own right.

"Wow!" she exclaims, turning in a small circle and taking in the paintings lining the walls.

I chuckle. "Haven't you ever been to a gallery?"

She shakes her head and walks over to a painting to look at it closely. Her slender finger reaches out and runs lightly along a thick paint stroke along the bottom. A smile stretches the entire width of her face as she stares in complete awe at the piece in front of her before moving on to the next one.

For an hour, I watch her taking in each piece of art. She doesn't skip any of them. And each one lights her up from the inside out. She looks at them as if they were telling her secrets that only she could understand. At one point, I think I hear her actually giggle, but she quickly masks it behind her hand and turns her back to me.

I walk over and take a seat on a bench by the front window. When she walks out of my line of sight, I pull my phone from my pocket and begin checking work emails. Even though I've been scheduling Fridays and weekends off, my emails still tend to flood in no matter what time of day or day of the week it is. People need answers, and they refuse to wait until the timing is convenient for me to respond.

I'm just finishing up when her shadow casts over me, and I rise from my seat to help her with her bags. "I went to pay for my items, but the clerk said you had already arranged payment." She gives me an accusatory look but quickly sheds it when a bright smile takes over her beautiful face.

I reach forward and take the bags from her hands and smile back. "No need to thank me. I told you it was on me. Did you find everything you needed?"

"That and then some." She laughs to herself as she rummages through one of the bags. She pulls out a rust red looking stone and hands it to me.

"What's this?" I ask, rolling the stone around in my palm.

She reaches over and runs her delicate fingers over its smooth surface. "It's a lepidolite stone." At my bewildered expression, she continues, her fingers stroking the stones surface while it sits in my palm. "It's used to relieve anxiety and lessen stress in the user’s life. It naturally contains lithium which ...”

"Is used in anti-depressant medications." I smirk. "I'm a doctor. Medicinals are kind of my thing."

She giggles, reluctantly withdrawing her hand.

My fingers close tightly around the cool stone. "Thank you." I slip it into my pocket and extend my hand to her. "Are you ready to leave now?"

She nods. "I can't wait to take this to the shelter. The kids are going to love it."

Her happiness at such a small gesture pleases me in ways I can't express.