by Reid, Penny
I knew.
He loved me, and I knew he still loved and craved my body. My pregnant body made him wild.
I knew this because, before the order of bed rest, he’d still been hiding my underwear and he’d started hiding my pajamas, enticing me to sleep naked with his fingers and his tongue. He’d kiss my pregnant belly with reverence and pride.
Yes. Pride.
Like some sort of caveman, puffing out his chest as though my new shape was a testament to his virility. Now who was the Neanderthal?
But not for the last three weeks.
He moved like he was going to reach for me but stopped himself, snatching his hands back and gritting his teeth. “I need you to take this seriously.”
“I am very serious. Get naked, or else.” I finished unbuttoning my pajamas and let the shirt fall to the floor, reaching behind me to unhook my bra.
Before I could pull my straps from my shoulders, he gripped my upper arms, scowling with intensified frustration and desperation. “Don’t.”
I blinked at him, something in his tone giving me pause, a quality that sounded completely foreign to his voice.
Could it be . . . panic?
I clutched his suit coat so he couldn’t retreat. “Quinn, you’re overreacting. You need to—”
“You could die,” he said, his grip tightening, the words rough and raw. “The doctor told me, while you were asleep, that you could die from this.”
I flinched back a half inch, inspecting my husband and seeing that he regretted the admission as soon as he’d said it.
“Quinn, I’m not going to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
I barely stopped myself from huffing a laugh. Oh, the irony.
“No. I don’t.” I slid my hands up his chest to cup his jaw, reveling in the feel of his skin, his warmth, his closeness. “Just like you don’t know if one day I’ll go crazy and kidnap your dog.”
Confusion clouded his features as his mind worked, and then finally comprehension. The line of his mouth was grim, but something around his eyes eased. “That’s not the same.”
“It is the same.” I lifted to my tiptoes and stole a quick kiss before he could step away, adding ardently, “I’m going to tell you something a very wise—yet mysterious and stoically handsome—man once told me.”
He didn’t step away, thank God. Instead, he stared down at me and my heart ached because he looked a little lost, a little hopeful, and a lot exhausted.
Oh. My poor McHotpants.
“You can’t prepare for every scenario or eventuality in life.”
His forehead dipped to touch mine. “I won’t take the risk.”
“I know we can’t do anything, I’m not suggesting we do anything risky.” I took advantage of our proximity to steal another kiss, this one slower, softer, better. “If you recall, I’m risk averse. I just need you to stop being so afraid of touching me.”
“Kitten,” he whispered brokenly, his fingers flexing, and my heart soared. Yes! I mentally high-fived myself because I could see his resolve crumbling.
“Okay, fine.” I twisted my arms around his neck, tilting my head to the side so I could see his expression. “What if I didn’t ask? What if we left it to chance?”
“Chance?” He squinted at me.
“Yes. Chance. Let’s play poker.”
A whisper of a smile tugged at the right side of his mouth as comprehension glittered behind his eyes. He shook his head, a subtle movement at first, and then increasing in speed.
I was about to make another plea for poker when he cut me off, “We’re not evenly matched.”
I grinned, my heart expanding and constricting.
And wouldn’t you know it, the dictator in my stomach chose that moment to roundhouse kick my belly button.
I gasped lightly, caught off guard by the movement, and Quinn’s mouth dropped open. Clearly, he’d felt the force of the kick where our middles were pressed together.
“That was . . .?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, feeling strangely proud of the little person wreaking havoc on my insides. “Fiona has been teaching the baby jujitsu.”
A miracle happened in the next moment. Quinn laughed. And then he slipped my bra straps from my shoulders, his hands gliding around my waist to my back.
I watched him in wonder and relief, immeasurably happy to see the lines of constant worry ease, if just for a moment, though I hoped it would be longer. I hoped, insomuch as was possible and feasible, the cessation of his worry for my health would be permanent.
“I miss you.” The words fled before I could catch them, and he affixed me with a sober stare, softened by reverence and love. “I miss you and I need you, more than I ever have before. And the best way you can demonstrate how much you love me is by treating me just the same as before. And that means snuggling with me, right now, naked.”
He sighed, nodding, rubbing slow, caressing circles on my back. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I wasn’t going to squeal, because I wasn’t the squealing sort. But in that moment, I considered a change in my squeal policy.
“Yes. I promise. Things will go back to normal. But I should point out . . .” he paused, kissing me, keeping the pressure maddeningly light, but it was better—so much better—than before. On a whisper, he continued, “If you wanted me to get rid of all your underwear, you should have just asked.”
About the Author
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
Come find me -
Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance
Email: [email protected] …hey, you! Email me ;-)
Want more Penny Reid shenanigans? Read on for:
1.Sneak peek of Penny’s upcoming book, Engagement and Espionage, Book #1 in the Handcrafted Mysteries Series
2. Sneak peek of the next book in the Knitting in the City series, Friends Without Benefits
3.Penny’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: Engagement and Espionage, Handcrafted Mysteries Book #1
*Cletus*
Why must people always talk?
“What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our make-shift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.
Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up.
If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a hand-written note, or a mime routine, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized resource, for example.
A silence ordinance: that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.
“Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.
We’d just finished the last stanza of ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question was in response to the frown affixed to my features.
I should have been pleased.
I was not pleased.
Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and I’d talked my brother Billy into singing–a rare achievement as Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session.
But Jenn was late.
Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was
late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.
“It’s time to take a break” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already looked at it ten times. “I need to make a call.”
Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared, and then he smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.
“Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”
A person walked between Drew and I, side stepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach my brother Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.
Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as, One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.
Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned him happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.
He should’ve been a musician. Or, he could’ve been one of those Ph.D. engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro-football player.
But no.
Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator, next. And after that, a congressman.
Good lord.
My expression of displeasure intensified.
I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.
She better not be working.
I swear, if that dragon-lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .
I would . . .
I won’t do a thing.
Damnit.
I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.
“Where’s Jenn?” Drew repeated the question, apparently convinced the lumbering disrupter was no longer a threat, his attention coming back to me.
“I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend, it was more of a nip than a bite.
He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”
“Apparently.” I said under my breath, It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon to be ex-Sylvester) on behalf of her daughter. It was up to Jenn to stand up to her mother, set and enforce boundaries. Jenn needed to be the one to call the shots. I knew that.
But I didn’t have to like it.
Maybe once we get married. . .
A knot of unease twisted in my stomach, adding a heaping helping of restlessness on top of my frustration.
Over Thanksgiving, we’d—
Well, I’d—
Damnit.
The truth was, we’d discussed marriage. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that. If or when she needed help planning the wedding, I surmised she would ask me.
But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. And when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.
Boy. Friend.
Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? Good lord.
Then again, in her defense, marriage wasn’t the only thing on her mind as of late. Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and on top of that, her momma was going through a tough time, seeing as how Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester was a real pain in the ass.
I’d hardly seen her for going on six weeks. When I did see her, it was either a Winston family affair where we had no privacy, or me showing up after work at the Donner Bakery. We’d fooled around a little—a very little—but mostly, Jenn had been exhausted.
Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, and maintained her homestead, plus car maintenance and absolutely no expectations.
That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of hopes. Unfulfilled hopes meant I may have been frustrated by the lack of Jenn’s time and attention, but I wasn’t allowing myself to dwell on it. I looked to the future, to a time when Jenn’s momma was less dependent, and folks hadn’t yet cheated on their New Year’s diets with baked goods.
In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.
But now, the time was night. New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time.
Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a sour expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.
But there was no Jennifer.
I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.
“Go on with the set if you want, I’m making that call and I can jump back in when I’m done.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case and then leaned it against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.
“Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”
I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say hi to Jenn from Drew on the off-chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say hi the next time I happened to see her.
Why did people do that? Send salutations through other people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed. If today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to “say hi” to Jenn, would have dropped my chances of being an unwilling messenger precipitously.
Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.
Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.
Useless.
If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.
Navigating the room easily, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.
Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall of the Green Valley community center, aiming for the front door and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passers-by and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.
/> I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”
I halted, only because the woman sounded like Jenn, and twisted toward the voice, anticipation filling my lungs before I could quell the instinct.
And there she was.
Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig on her head, a yellow dress on her person with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck.
Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.
Jenn rushed to close the distance between us while I stood stock still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes and I sighed quietly.
She jogged to me in high heels.
She must’ve just left work.
As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.
When Jenn was about five feet away, her smile—looking forced—widened unnaturally and she said, “Hey, there you are.”
“Here I am.” I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets.
She stopped abruptly about two feet away, unable to come closer without moving the Donner Bakery box to one side, and that would have been awkward. It was a big box, both a literal barrier as well as a figurative representation of what separated us.
A second ticked by. She said nothing. Maybe because I was glaring at the box. I didn’t want to be the first to speak; I was too persnickety to be trusted. But then I remembered Drew’s request, and I relented.
“Drew says hi,” I said.
There. That’s done. Message conveyed.
“Oh.” The word was airy, like she was out of breath. If I’d just jogged a hallway in high heels, I would’ve been out of breath, too.
Another second ticked by, then another, and that deep well of frustration began to rise, reaching my esophagus and higher, flooding my chest with suffocating disappointment.
Damn it.
I felt her shift closer and the movement drew my attention to her sweet face and gorgeous eyes.