Hillary
I CLAP MY HAND OVER my mouth in a belated attempt to hold back the words spewing from me, but it’s too late.
Much, much too late. Oh my God.
Not once in all the pregnancy books I’ve read have they mentioned uncontrollable speech as a pregnancy symptom. Not in any trimester. But I have no other plausible excuse for the verbal assault I just committed on the man who lives next door to me.
It figures that I’d finally meet him when I’m beached, bloated, snot-filled, and have emotional Tourette’s. That’s pretty much how life goes these days for me.
Mac Stryker is the literal embodiment of virile man with a capital V. I know I’m extra horny from all the hormones, yet another of life’s little jokes for me, but honestly, if I weren’t already pregnant I’d be worried that just his proximity would do it.
He smells like spearmint and spice, and I wonder if he’d let me take a nap in his sheets because I have a feeling I’d finally sleep well for a change if I were surrounded by his scent. I should be careful what I wonder. I’m liable to say it out loud. I’m sure the last thing this hot guy wants is the mental image of me rolling around in his sheets.
To his credit, he doesn’t outwardly react to my incoherent (I hope) rambling. “Okay, Hillary. Let’s tackle this one problem at a time. The way I see it, getting into your apartment would solve several of your problems simultaneously, so that’s our first step.”
I nod, resigned to a bill from a locksmith I can ill afford.
Mac stands, and my gaze follows his rise all the way up. He’s tall and dense with hard-packed muscle. God. More granite than man, he’s robust and sturdy, nothing can knock him down. What is that like? Knowing you can just buffet whatever winds life throws at you by standing still. Since I got preggo, I’ve felt insecure. It was hard enough taking care of myself when I was alone, but now I’m supposed to shelter this tiny human inside me from everything scary and dangerous. Why didn’t God make mothers the ones with all the upper body strength instead of men? We need it more.
He pulls something out of his pocket and goes to my door, inserting a silver object into the handle.
“What are you doing? Are you...are you breaking into my apartment?”
He doesn’t turn, which is not a problem. The view of his backside is okay fine with me. His ass is a work of art encased in tight blue jeans. Perfectly proportioned tight, round spheres. “Yep.”
“I thought you said you were a cop? What kind of cop knows how to break into apartments?” And carries the tools to do it?
“The resourceful kind,” he answers, he looks over his shoulder with a wolfish grin. “I find it’s best to know what the perps can do and how they do it if I want to stop them. Also, as a cop, I have to tell you that your door isn’t very secure, and you need better locks. The kind not so easy to break.”
He jiggles the handle, and I hear a pop just before the door opens. My relief is short-lived. I still can’t get off the floor. And no, I do not want his help. My God. This is humiliating.
“You’re mentally trying to figure out which yoga position will get you off the ground, Hillary. I can see it.”
The blush is hot and fierce as it spreads from my scalp to my toes. The only thing worse than trying to stand in front of this hot guy is not standing up in time and wetting myself. I get to my hands and knees, but the hot ball of tears in my throat won’t go back down. Shit. I’m going to cry again.
“Hey,” his warm voice blankets me. He’s down on the floor at face level. “I’m going to help you get up, okay?”
“I can do it.” I totally can’t. There’s no way I can bend the laws of physics, but maybe I can just roll into my apartment. The baby crane-kicks me in the bladder. I wince but manage not to swear. I’ve been working on it. I don’t want to swear at my kid when it comes out, so I try not to swear at it while it’s cooking either. But man. Sometimes Little Bloomer makes it difficult. That was some kick. “I can do it,” I repeat.
“Hillary, I’m a trained professional.”
“Yeah? Cops train for this? Where, the zoo? You guys work with the elephants and walruses?”
He makes this noise that’s a cross between a heavy sigh and an almost laugh. “Anyone ever tell you that you tend to exaggerate? I’m a big strong man, Hillary. I can handle this.”
I blow out a breath and allow him to help me up slowly. He really is a big strong man. He helps me find my center of gravity and Bloomer starts rolling under his hand. Mac stops all movement, and his eyes get big. “Was that the baby?”
“Yeah, he or she is really active today.” The baby rolls again. “You ever felt a baby kick before?”
Mac shakes his head. I have to say he looks a little pale. I move his hand an inch and place mine over it, waiting for another movement. When it happens, Mac’s face transforms into the smile of a kid who just saw a bike under the Christmas tree.
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah,” I answer with a laugh. “It’s pretty crazy, right?”
He puts his other huge paw on my stomach and waits for another one. It’s like watching for the dice to stop rolling at a roulette table. We’re hushed, expectant. Bam! He laughs. It’s hearty and rich, and my heart flips in tandem with my baby at the sound of it.
“That is amazing.” He ushers me into my own apartment, one hand still on my belly. “Does it hurt?”
“Not usually. Sometimes. The first time Bloomer moved, I thought I had some kind of small rodent trapped in my shirt. I totally freaked out.”
Mac closes the door behind us and puts my purse on the couch. “I’m going to take some pictures of your door so I know what kind of hardware we need to shore it up.”
“Mac, I can’t afford—”
“The landlord owes me a favor. I’ll make sure he covers the cost.”
I don’t believe that for a minute. The landlord doesn’t fix shit in this building, but I’m not going to argue on a full bladder.
I already have to face a virgin birth, I’m not going to add “also peed her pants in front of her neighbor” to my headstone.