by Melissa Blue
She left dust in her wake going up the stairs. He watched, every muscle coiled because he wanted to follow her up. Talk her into letting him help with her back, and any other hard to reach places.
But Iris had made it pretty clear she thought their kitchen interlude was a mistake, not a beginning. He tried to even his breathing when his bedroom door closed. He pushed from the rail and went straight to the kitchen sink. Porter twisted the faucet handle to cold and stuck his head under the spray. He closed his eyes, doubting anything would help ease his hard dick except for Iris, but he was desperate.
Wasn’t helping, not when his fingers still held her scent. He could get off with that. Go to the downstairs bathroom, and jerk himself back to a semblance of restraint. Or sanity. Something.
Because, fuck, Porter would have sworn on a Bible, as blasphemous as that action would be, that Iris had shown him exactly the kind of woman she would be in bed. She was fun, adventurous and a little insatiable. Their one night had stuck in his mind so that no woman after her seemed to measure up. He’d been sure that would fade eventually, and he could move on.
Except now he knew she hadn’t been hungry for him. He’d brushed his mouth along hers, and she’d lost whatever hold she had on her emotions, her wants, her needs. He’d barely touched her, and she’d been wetter than wet.
How the fuck was Porter supposed to act like he didn’t want her anymore? The next time she bit her bottom lip—what the hell was he supposed to do? Act like he didn’t want to throw her down on the nearest flat surface and fuck her, no, fuck them both until they found oblivion?
He understood her reticence. He did. A baby didn’t need to ride out their will they/won’t they be together for the long haul, but he couldn’t breathe without wanting her under him, wanting to be balls deep inside her.
He was drowning himself under the faucet to try and get past it, and still it wasn’t working. Porter pulled his head from under the sink, blindly grabbed the towel to dry his face and head.
The ringing of his doorbell saved him from another self-inflicted waterboarding.
He opened the door, shook his head, and then turned back toward the kitchen.
“What?” Oliver yelled, still at the door. “I brought beer.”
“I don't recall inviting you.” He opened the fridge to pull out the tray of chicken to take outside.
Oliver followed close behind. “Let's put it like this, I found out one of my friends is having a baby because my mother wanted to know the sex of the child. You know, so she can get a gift.”
Porter winced. “Shit. Sorry. I've been flying back and forth to New York for the last month. I kept missing you at Grady's. Not to mention, Wade knew.”
Oliver pulled a hand through his blond hair. The strands brushed his chest now. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. “Graham Bell. Ever heard of him?”
Porter put the tray down. “How did your mother find out?”
“Yours called. I think she went through her Rolodex of family and friends. She did the same when Ashley and Victor married.”
He was there for some of those calls. “I’m sorry. I should have told you personally instead of expecting someone to tell you. Forgiven?”
“Yeah. I had to give you shit about it first.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his well-worn denims. “Important question.”
“What?”
“Boy or girl?”
Porter grinned. “Boy.”
Oliver’s blue eyes lit, but he said, “Poor kid. His head is going to be gigantic. You finally just grew into yours.”
Porter cut a glance his way. It had taken his friend a month to hunt him down. That wasn’t like Oliver, even when he was on a tight deadline. “Enough about me. How's Nadia?”
Oliver’s eyes darkened and his brows slashed down. “Who?”
Nadia was his ex, and they’d had a run-in a few months ago. Oliver hadn’t talked about it and apparently continued to refuse to.
Porter shrugged. “You can help with the cooking if you want to play dumb.”
“I want to meet the woman who is having your child.”
“She's getting ready upstairs.”
Oliver's brows rose. “She's in your room? Naked?”
His mind got stuck on that factoid. Oliver laughed, and walked over to a chair with the case of beer.
“Oliver, it's not whatever you’re thinking.” Shit, how he wished it was.
He could feel the weight of Oliver’s stare. Porter glanced out at his yard.
It needed some mending. Fixing the crab grass and actually having a landscape had been on his to-do list since he moved in a few months ago. Sure, his kid wouldn't play on it for a while, and who knows, in two years he might have a different place. One closer to a school. Everything was up in the air, and he didn’t know how and if he should go forward.
He was going to have a kid. That truth kept creeping up on him and gut punching him, and they still had five more months to go before the real work started.
So maybe he hadn’t talked to Oliver because he didn’t know what to say. Unlike Wade and Victor, Oliver would dig deeper than the obvious.
Porter stabbed the onion he’d sliced in half and used the flat edge to prime the grill, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Didn’t take long.
“I’m thinking you’re not your father.”
“I know.” The words came out harder than he’d intended. He rolled his shoulders and started to stack the meat on the grill. A plume of smoke filled the air as the juices hit the heated coal. “But that kind of man is in me.”
“We all have demons, Porter. Some of those demons can’t be defeated. I know that, but you’re not hopeless.”
Porter glanced at him and had to frown. “Nadia?”
“Who?”
He let it go and concentrated solely on the food until Iris stood at the screen door. Oliver had dragged out the ice chest and settled onto the porch chair next to it.
She'd changed into tights and a short peach dress. She’d straightened her hair, put on makeup, and looked sexy and aloof. Untouchable. His stomach tightened, and he told himself to look away. To ignore the stab of attraction in his gut. He inhaled and exhaled. Didn’t help, but the urge to pin her down and take her mouth lessened.
Oliver sat up. “It's very nice to meet you in official capacity, Iris.”
Her hand skimmed over her middle. “It’s strange because we’ve lived in the same sphere of friendship for five years.”
“What do you mean?” Oliver asked.
“I feel like I know you, but I don’t. Plus, Eva calls you The Blond God, which I can see is totally accurate after speaking to you for five seconds.”
“The what?” His friend laughed.
“Blond God. She could have sworn there was like a halo around your head or something when she first met you.”
Porter and Oliver laughed at that imagery—Oliver an angel. “If only she knew.” There was a pause then Oliver said, “What else has Eva told you?”
Iris dug into her pocket, then the smile left her face. “My dad just texted me. He'll be here in ten minutes.”
The meet and greet wasn’t supposed to happen for an another hour. “That’s fine,” Porter said.
She shoved the phone back into her dress’s pocket. “I’m sure it will be.”
Her voice didn’t sound like it would. “I can text my mom to come early.”
“Could you?”
Yeah. He didn’t like the way her shoulders had inched up. “It’s no big deal.”
“Excuse me, I just...I need the restroom.”
Oliver met his gaze, and nothing needed to be said. Porter could only shrug. He didn’t know. That was his and Iris’s problem. They didn’t know each other, and now they were going to raise a kid.
Belle + Mr. Gold
“He has a nice house,” is the first thing her father said to her. He filled the doorway with his tall frame.
She curled her fingers into fists i
n her pockets. “He’s out back, on the patio.”
Her father frowned, making his displeasure known. She added, “He’s manning the grill.”
“Can’t cook?”
Her kneejerk response was to defend Porter and point out her father hadn’t known a spatula from a stirring spoon until her mom died. But the less she made a fuss the better this meeting would go. “Want a water or soda?”
“Water’s fine.”
She gestured toward the kitchen, leading the way. Oliver stood at the island, grating carrots. Potatoes and eggs were lined up. He put down the knife and smiled. “Mr. Bellamy, I’m Oliver. Porter’s friend.”
Iris ripped open the fridge, tension stiffening her neck.
“I thought it was just going to be you, me, him and his mother?”
She didn’t want to see Oliver’s expression. He seemed nice, but his gaze was sharp. “His friends are like his family and they wanted to meet me.”
“They haven’t met you before?”
She handed her father a water that he took with a nod. Iris glanced at Oliver and both of his brows were up. “As Ashley’s friend. I’m told this is different.”
Her father turned his stare to Oliver. “How long have you known Porter?”
“Almost all of my life. We went to elementary school together, then junior high, and so on and so forth.”
Her father took in the tattoos on his wrists. “I see.”
Iris said, “Porter’s this way.”
He put up his hand. “I think I can introduce myself. Looks like Porter’s friend might need help with the potato salad.”
“Are you sure? I...”
Her father was already walking away, and out the sliding door. She grabbed a potato and the peeler. Oliver didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. She knew her father was strict and sometimes rude. This was taking the cake. “Did Porter need anything else prepared?”
“Just this. He’s going to make it since he doesn’t trust anyone else but his mama to do it.”
She found a laugh. “Something else I’ve learned about Porter.”
“What?”
“He’s a mama’s boy.”
Oliver laughed. “We all kind of are when it comes to Ms. Hicks. Victor’s mom usually gave us the stink eye. Mine is...I didn’t have a lot of sleepovers. Ms. Hicks felt she needed to keep an eye on us and keep us in line.”
“How often did that work out?”
“Not well. I remember one summer where she grounded us.”
“She what?”
“We could come over but only to read. I thanked her in my first published comic book.”
That was sweet. “Thank you.”
“What did I do?” he said that with a straight face.
She rolled her eyes. “Get a pot so we can start boiling water.”
The doorbell rang. “Saved by the bell, as they say. I’ll get that and you can get the pot.”
That left her alone in the kitchen. She peered out the glass sliding door. Porter stood with his feet apart in front of the grill. Her father faced him, his back rigid. She couldn’t tell what the men were saying to each other, but it wasn’t good, not from their expressions. Her stomach churned. They would get through this meal, and then her family and his could go their relatively separate ways.
It would be fine. She could go on acting like her father was just imperfect.
*****
“You lied to me.” The deep baritone cut into her like a poisoned dipped dagger.
“Dad—”
“You made it seem like you were in a relationship with him—”
“Daddy,” she said to stop him from saying something that would hurt them both, deeper than what he’d already said.
She had to ball her hands until her nails dug into her fists to wrangle her emotions. Iris wouldn’t cry. She refused to. Her hormones would not get the best of her again.
She pushed her shoulders back and held her father’s disappointed stare. “I—”
“Your mother wanted better for you.”
Iris quit trying to defend herself at those words. She wished she could say her father was wrong. In her death, her father had placed her mother on a pedestal. Her ideals were now dogma.
But at thirteen, her mother had sat her down and laid out Iris’s two choices: Madonna or whore. Society would only see her as one, but she could choose. She could be the woman she wanted to be and accept it wholeheartedly.
Yet it was one thing to forge ahead with her career, without husband or children—proudly choosing the whore path—because a degree was respectable. A career-focused life was still more acceptable than being pregnant and unmarried. Her mother would have been as disappointed as her father was now.
Worse. She’d introduced her father to a man who was the epitome of everything she should marry—smart, outwardly kind, had a good job, and owned a house—and that man didn't want to marry her. As far as her father was concerned, Porter would rather plant his seed and move on.
Yeah. Sure. It was the twenty-first century, she should roar, feel proud of her choices, embrace the imperfect path her life was winding down.
But standing in the hallway with her father reminding her just how far off the path she’d gone… She clasped a hand over her mouth and wiped at it. “I didn't mean to lie to you. I didn't know how to tell you.”
His jaw flexed, making his brown skin pull tight. His hair the shade of pepper looked stark in Porter’s hallway.
“All of his friends are out there on his patio and joking about it. About you.”
Iris told herself her parents came from a different generation. You married and you stayed married, no matter how unhappy you were. It was the right thing to do.
He wouldn't understand.
But she glanced into his eyes again and shrank just a bit more. “We did everything to prevent a pregnancy. It happened anyway. We're going to be good parents.”
“Did everything but waited until you were married.”
But did she want to be married to a stranger? Just because it looked good? She dropped her hand to her stomach. Porter didn't have a regret. When Iris was with Porter, seeing the way his heart rested on his sleeve when it came to their son, she didn't either.
“Porter—”
“Is standing right here.” She and her father both turned to Porter. He rested his arm against the wall, his expression unreadable as he held her father's stare.
Shit. She knew that face. He was pissed, and that meant he'd heard enough to lower his brow and tighten his jawline.
“I'm heading home,” her father said.
Porter dismissed the announcement with a shrug and slid his attention from her father. “You and Junior okay?”
“We’re fine,” she said in a tight voice. She did not want him here for this. “How about you make me a plate? If there’s any food left.”
Concern still filled his gaze, but he gave her a smile. “I’ve already saved you two plates after seeing you eat this morning.”
Her father scoffed. “Exactly what I'm talking about.”
She sucked in a breath. Porter dropped his arm and positioned himself between her and her father. “Let me get you a to-go plate.”
Her father stepped into Porter's space. “I'm talking to my daughter.”
“And that's my son she's carrying.” Porter took a step forward, the menace clear in the way he squared his shoulders. “So this will be the last time I'll ask you nicely to watch what you say and how you say it to her.”
Her father puffed up his chest, which was considerable since he was almost six feet of muscle. “Excuse me?”
“Do you need me to say it slower?”
“Porter!” She tugged at the back of his shirt and all that did was reveal the tats on his back because he took another step. His nose was an inch away from her father’s.
Her father shook his head. “And this is the man you're having a child with?”
“Yeah,” Porter said. “Let’s skip the to-
go plate. I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
Without another word, Porter grabbed Iris's other hand and led her to the kitchen. She dropped his shirt since he hadn’t cared one bit that she’d exposed his stomach trying to get him to back down. He pulled out a seat and gestured to it. She leaned against the back, not ready to sit down.
Her imagination didn't have to work too hard to know what her mother would have said about the heated exchange. It added insult to injury, but Iris... She looked into Porter’s face. His brows still furrowed deep, his mouth remained in a firm line. He’d let his temper get the best of him again. Yet this time it was in her defense—theirs.
She couldn’t be mad. She wasn’t sure if she could be grateful either. Eventually, she’d hoped, her father would come around. If not for her, for the only grandchild who would carry XY chromosomes.
He was the only father she had, the only parent left and...
She jumped when the front door slammed.
Her world dimmed, but laughter still spilled into his home. His friends and family had come to surround him in their support. Iris dropped her gaze to the table and tried to swallow the tears that wanted to come. She would not cry again. This pregnancy would not turn her into a mess. She was strong, resilient, and unbreakable.
Iris jolted again when a hand brushed down her spine. Porter placed a plate on the table in front the chair he’d pulled out for her.
His expression had softened though the anger only simmered in his eyes. “Do you want something to drink?”
For the first time in months she didn't have a bottomless pit of hunger, but she sat down. She didn’t know what else to do.
“Do you need me to sit with you?” he asked when she hadn’t answered the first question.
She pushed the plate away. “No. Go to your friends.”
He sighed and settled in beside her. After a moment, he took her plate, and that move shook her out of numbness. “Really?”
He took a big bite out of a drumstick. “You weren't eating it.”
She grabbed her plate back. “I might.”
He picked off the drumstick he'd already taken a bite from and frowned at her. “Are we going to talk about it?”