About Time (The Avenue Book 1)

by B. Cranford

  Not that it was hard. Or, actually, it was hard. His dick was diamond-hard, sensitive and . . . and . . .

  “Yes, fuck, fuck, yes.” He threw his head back as cum began to fill the condom, the tightening of his lower back and balls coupling with the intense pleasure to make words impossible.

  Until he lifted his head, their eyes meeting. Something passed between them, something nameless but right, something that replaced all the words in his vocabulary with one.

  “Ashton.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Her eyes widened, her hand moving over her mouth like she couldn’t believe the words had just escaped her, while Duncan’s eyes started doing double-time as he tried to make heads or tails of what she’d just said. He felt his eyebrows fly up—leaving him wondering if it was possible to get a muscle strain from rapid eyebrow movement. Yes, that’s the most important question right now.

  “What I mean is—it’s just that—”

  He could see it happening, the gathering of words in Ashton’s mouth to be spewed forth in a lengthy, uncontrolled monologue, so he cut her off. “Kitten, I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t happen straightaway.” He smirked down at her, their bodies still connected. “And we used protection.”

  If he’d been expecting a laugh, he didn’t get it. She braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed, pushed him away, his waning erection slipping from her body, something that he knew was necessary for the impending conversation but that he couldn’t help but mourn.

  It had felt so good.

  “I just need a min-min-minute,” she stuttered, rolling away from him and off the other side of her no-longer-perfect bed. “Just, ah, don’t go, okay?” She looked at him as if she was forcing herself to maintain eye contact, and he stretched out where she’d just laid and attempted a soothing smile.

  He wanted to put her at ease, but at the same time he wanted answers.

  He felt like he should be pissed off or angry or something.

  He wasn’t. Confused, yes. But angry? No. He’d find out what was happening soon enough, and when he did—well, he reserved the right to be angry then, if the occasion called for it.

  “I won’t,” he said to her retreating back, making sure she knew that he wasn’t going to disappear before they talked. After all, talking was what he’d come here to do. Instead he’d come and so had she, because he’d done her.

  A chuckle escaped him, the moment of levity needed to spur him into action. He couldn’t just lie there, his now-deflated but still condom-covered dick recovering from the best sex of its—of his—life. Sitting up, he let his eyes travel the room in search of tissues, spying a box sitting on the dresser. Standing, then ridding himself of the condom was the next step, staring at it now crumpled within a tissue and balled in his hand.

  He needed to get rid of it, but there wasn’t a trash can in her bedroom. He could walk out to the kitchen area and dispose of it, but he assumed that she, like most people, had one in her bathroom, so he headed that way.

  It was attached to her bedroom, the white door closed but not locked. He knocked gently as he opened the door and eased into the room, unsure of what he’d find there.

  She’s crying, was his first thought, seeing her naked body facing away from him, her head lowered so he couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror that hung over the small vanity she was using for support. The movement of her shoulders, however, told another story.

  She’s laughing, he decided, wondering if she was hysterical or in shock or just really thought it was funny she’d fucked him and then announced she was going to be a mom.

  She’s both, he realized, when she raised her head and looked at him with eyes already reddened by tears and hiccup-sob-giggles stopping her from saying anything.

  “Ashton?” He knew his voice was tentative, and who could blame him? He had no idea what was going on, not really, and he was torn between wanting to console her and nail her with question after question until his curiosity was sated. “Are you okay?”

  Are you okay?

  Good question. Was she okay? She didn’t know. She couldn’t bring herself to regret what she’d just done with Duncan—her nerves were still afire, her heart still racing. Though, the latter might be because, instead of post-coital snuggling, she’d announced her pregnancy to him.

  Oh God. Two very familiar words. She may as well have them tattooed on her forehead, she was thinking them so often. What have I done?

  “Ashton?”

  She still hadn’t answered him and, though she didn’t think she was completely okay, she raised her head, catching his eyes in the mirror and said, “Yes,” just to give him peace of mind.

  “Okay.” Still, he stood there, despite taking her answer at face value, and she couldn’t resist looking at him again, more. He hadn’t put on clothes when he’d come into the bathroom where she’d sought refuge, and honestly, her raging hormones thought that he should probably never again put on clothes.

  Why cover perfection?

  With one hand fisted at his side, his other hovering in front of his dick—as if she hadn’t just had it inside her—he stared right back at her, their eyes meeting once more when she’d finished her perusal of him.

  “Ashton?” he asked a third time, uncertainty thickening his voice. He didn’t know what she was thinking, and neither did she.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered, turning around to face him, not sure if she was apologizing for the sex, the awkward announcement, or something else.

  Something like not waiting for him.

  Which was the stupidest of stupid thoughts.

  She was never going to wait for him—she’d had no idea he’d be back in her life. Ever. Sure, Ashton was happy to admit to thinking about him, even before the increased thoughts in the past few weeks, but that didn’t mean she’d pined for him.

  And if she’d had the occasional sex dream about him, so be it.

  “For what, exactly?” he asked, his question mirroring her thoughts. His brow was pulled into a frown, his hand still clutching the . . .

  Oh, shit, she thought, realizing that he must be holding the used condom. She stepped to the side and gestured to the small trash can that sat beside the vanity. “In there,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily, but having no idea what else to say.

  His nod of acknowledgement was shallow and, as he moved forward, she realized that he was about to be in her personal space.

  Again.

  Well, maybe not quite as much as earlier, but still, she wasn’t sure if she could be that close to him before she’d had the chance to explain.

  That he was still there at all was something of a miracle, and one she didn’t want to take advantage of by jumping him a second time. She scooted past him, out into her bedroom and made for the dresser. She needed to cover her body, and she needed him to do the same. If there was going to be any form of communication happening between them, it needed to be clothed. And maybe not in her bedroom, the smell of sex still lingering in the air.

  “Hey, so, we should”—his pause caused Ashton to turn and face him, her body now covered by a long nightshirt which said ‘Instaham’, with a picture of a pig taking a selfie on the front—“you know, ah, talk. Nice shirt, by the way.”

  She smiled at him and then down at the cartoon pig. She’d grabbed it at Walmart one day because she liked pigs and she liked puns and she liked comfy, loose T-shirts. It wasn’t the sexiest thing she owned, by far, but she didn’t need sexy right now. She needed comfort and booze.

  And since she was pregnant and booze was off the table, comfort it was.

  “Yeah, let’s go out there,” she replied, throwing a thumb over her shoulder to indicate she wanted to take this conversation out of the bedroom. Away from the scene of the crime.

  “Good idea.” He scooped up his pants from the floor, pulling them on but leaving them unbuttoned before motioning for her to walk ahead of him. She did, leading him from the bedroom to the kitchen, all the
while feeling his eyes on her body.

  If a little extra sway made its way into her walk, what did it matter? They’d already banged and now they were about to sit around and awkwardly talk about, oh, the fact she’d dropped her pregnancy bombshell at the most inopportune moment.

  Not true, the devil on her shoulder offered, you could have told him after you came but before he did, and left him hanging.

  She snorted at the evil thought. Somehow, she thought, telling someone you had a bun in the oven mid-thrust seemed like an excellent erection killer.

  “Something funny, Kitten?” he asked, waiting until she took her favorite seat at the small, square kitchen table, and then pulling out the chair directly opposite her. Obviously, he wanted to look at her while this happened.

  “Um, sorry. I was just thinking of worse moments to tell you I was knocked up.”

  “Because after we’d had sex for the first time wasn’t bad enough?” The words seemed harsh, but the soft look in his eyes told her he was kidding.

  “Well, during might have topped it. A little, I got mine and hey, by the way, I’m with child before you finished?”

  “Mm,” he grunted, looking like he was giving it serious thought until a smile broke across his face. “Okay, yeah, I could see that. But . . .” He trailed off and the softness she’d glimpsed in his gaze became heated. “You’re fucking hot, Ashton. I think I’d have managed to finish.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at him, unsure how to respond to what she thought might be one of the nicest, but weirdest, compliments she’d ever been paid.

  You’re pregnant with another man’s baby and this is the first I’m hearing of it but you’re so sexy I still want to pound you into this mattress until we both come.

  “So . . .” He used a rolling hand to urge her to start talking, and she knew time was up. She had to explain, and she didn’t know where to start. So, she did what anyone would do.

  Well, anyone that was Ashton Andrews.

  She took a long, deep breath and released it, along with a string of words that probably covered everything she needed to tell him. “Right, so I was with Nathan for, like, ever and he didn’t want kids yet and I figured I had time, right? I was in my twenties and the prime of my life and all that but then I found out he wasn’t exactly the most faithful boyfriend—and by that I mean he cheated, repeatedly—and I left him but then I was in my thirties and suddenly single after years and years with this guy who’d asked me to wait until he was ready and I was worried that I’d miss my chance and I didn’t want to wait anymore even though I still really wanted to have the full dream I’d dreamed when I was a little girl, you know? Marriage. Picket fence. Handsome husband to go with the two point five kids or whatever. So I decided to do it alone and got a sperm donor and went to the doctor and now, I have a baby in my belly, I don’t know the father’s name but I do know what he looked like as a baby and I’m sad and excited and scared and nervous and thrilled that it’s finally happening even if it isn’t happening the way I wanted it to and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it before, I wanted to. I wanted to but then your mouth and the tongue thing and fingers were, you know, there and it felt really, really good and so I just sort of . . . forgot.”

  The look on Duncan’s face told her he wasn’t sure of anything she’d just said. “Are you done?” he asked, waiting for her nod before asking a follow-up question. “Do you need a drink of water? An inhaler? An oxygen tank, perhaps?”

  She huffed out a laugh at his implication that she’d talked her way into oxygen deprivation and waved the joking question away. “I’m fine. But, did you get it all? Or should I say it again?”

  With his eyes widened in a look of mock-horror and a hand held up to stop her from talking anymore, Duncan looked so like the boy who’d spent time talking to her and getting to know her when she was a teenager. The kind, funny, hot-as-hell boy who she’d wanted whole-heartedly and then had to forget because life isn’t always fair.

  “I think I got it. Lemme see—Nathan is a dickless idiot, you were artificially inseminated, and now you’re having a baby.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Boil it down to the pertinent points?”

  “Um, I don’t know. It’s not hard.”

  “It is for some people.”

  “For you, Ash. It’s hard for you.” He looked down then, and a wicked smile overtook his face. “That’s not the only thing that’s hard for you.”

  The laugh that burst from her mouth startled them both. “You did not just say that.”

  “I believe I did.”

  “You’re not really . . .” she trailed off, leaving the question incomplete, but the meaning was clear enough.

  “No, not really. But, Kitten, I have to say, thinking about you and getting a boner aren’t exactly mutually exclusive.”

  She had no idea how to respond to that. She had no idea how to respond to anything that had happened since he’d walked into The Avenue and told her his name. But she had to find out what he was really thinking behind the jokes, behind the playful demeanor.

  Was he angry? He didn’t seem to be, but then again, she didn’t know him anymore. And she hadn’t actually known him all that well to begin with. A few days, years in the past, wasn’t enough to claim insight into anyone.

  “Are you going to say anything, or, like, ask questions?” She hated the uncertainty in her voice, but she was so far out of her depth in that moment, she was basically in international waters.

  Great for gambling. Terrible for trying to talk to the man you just had sex with about the bun in your oven that wasn’t his.

  “Are you happy?” His eyes caught and held hers, softening once more and making her heart stutter, just as the words from her mouth had only a few minutes earlier. “Is this what you want, Ashton?”

  She nodded, not sure she could say the words, but certain, certain, of her answer. This was what she wanted. Maybe it wasn’t ideal but, she thought as she brought one hand over her ever-so-slightly rounded stomach in a protective gesture, this passionfruit-sized baby was what she wanted.

  No matter what.

  Duncan had no idea where this conversation was supposed to go. He’d come to Madison to seek something out—something hazy, but that looked a lot like Ashton, if he was being honest—but the revelation of her pregnancy was . . . unexpected.

  Understatement of the century.

  Yet he could see from the way she held herself, the way she rested a hand so gently on her stomach, that this was something important. Not an accident that she was taking in stride. Not an unplanned whoops that was going to transform her life and the life of the unsuspecting father.

  This baby was wanted. Already loved.

  And, bluntly, an obstacle to what he’d half-thought was his end game.

  A relationship—whatever form that took—with her.

  They sat at her table in silence for a few minutes, neither of them sure what to say next, until—

  “Why did you come here, Duncan?” Her question was steady, her hands now laid out on the table in front of her.

  “Here, to your bar and your apartment, or here to Madison?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, making it clear she wanted an answer to both.

  He took a moment to gather his scattered thoughts before responding, wanting to give her honesty, but also wanting to protect himself somewhat.

  Losing Kennedy had made him more than a little raw.

  “You know, that is, Kennedy died a few weeks ago, and she was . . .” He cleared his throat, using the moment to swallow back the lump already forming there before pressing on. “She was sick for a while—years, Ash—and it was awful. Watching her and waiting for her to get worse. Never better, not completely.”

  Ashton’s hand was a sudden, warm, welcome weight on his own. She smiled a sad smile, one to encourage him to keep going, which he did.

  “Work and Kennedy. For the longest time, they were my
priorities but now . . .” The words died on his lips, their importance making it difficult to speak them aloud.

  “But now?” she asked, her voice understanding but not pitying. Curious but not morbidly so.

  She wanted to know, he thought, so she could help. She’s going to be an amazing mother. The stray thought made his hands press down a little harder on the wooden surface beneath them. If Ashton felt the flex of his muscle where her hand covered his, she didn’t acknowledge it.

  It took him a minute to pick up where he left off. “But now, she’s gone. I don’t have to work so hard to cover medical bills and the mortgage on my apartment. I don’t have to move my schedule around to accommodate doctors’ visits or hospital stays. I have work, still, lots of it, but it’s not the same. I’m not doing it for her anymore and it feels, I don’t know, like, empty? If that makes sense?”

  “It does.”

  He felt slightly foolish laying this all out for her—laying himself bare, but in some small way, it was cathartic.

  She was validating that aimlessness that had plagued him.

  “I don’t remember if we ever talked about it, but I never wanted to live in a big city long term, or to live only for my job. Like, eat, sleep, breathe it. But somehow, that’s what happened.” He stopped, taking another long, deep breath. He wasn’t Ashton-level rambling but he felt like he was close.

  “Sounds like you were living for her, not the job. And that’s not a bad thing. The opposite, actually.”

  With her words hitting their mark—her understanding completely unraveling him—he was the closest to losing his cool that he could remember being in a long time.

  “And you thought coming here would what, exactly?” she continued, her hand still atop his, her blue eyes holding his.

  “Will you judge me if I say I don’t know? Because I don’t. I wanted to see if there was something here that made me want to stay.” He shook his head at his vague response. Talking about his feelings, about Kennedy and the emptiness she left behind, was uncomfortable for him.