“Why are we outside your apartment?” I stare in horror at the building, not because it’s a bad place but because I know exactly why we’re here. I still need him to say it.
“Because you’re moving in with me. Thanks for the ride, and happy New Year,” he says to the Lyft driver while urging me to slide out the back of the car. Now I know why he insisted on us sharing a ride after we dropped off the rental car. “I should’ve gotten you a wheelchair,” he mumbles to himself.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I groan. “It’s called bed rest, not bedridden. I need to stay off my feet, but I can still get around some throughout the day.”
“Still.” He rubs his stubbled jaw. “I think I’d feel better if you had a wheelchair.”
“Just get our bags, Sullivan,” I grumble in annoyance. “I’ll sit down in the lobby.”
“Sullivan.” His nose wrinkles with distaste. Apparently, he doesn’t like me calling him by his last name. Good to know. But right now, Sullivan it is, since he thinks I’m moving in with him.
In the lobby of his building, I find a big, cushy leather chair to sink into.
God, I’m already so tired of all the sitting and lying. I don’t know how I’m going to do this for months. I know I’ll find a way to endure it for the sake of my baby, but that doesn’t make the reality of it any less daunting.
Beckham comes in with our bags, eyes searching frantically for me. I should let him suffer, and maybe I do wait a purposeful few seconds too long before I lift my hand in a wave. Relief floods his face as he makes his way to me.
“Let’s go home,” he says softly, almost pleadingly.
“This is your home,” I remind him.
His lips purse like he wants to argue, but by some miracle, he decides to keep his mouth shut. Resolve floods those baby-blue eyes. He sees this as some challenge of sorts. I have a feeling that’s about to be very dangerous for me.
Since his hands are full, he offers me his elbow, which I steadfastly ignore. I know it’s a sweet gesture—I’ll give him credit there—but I do not want to be coddled.
We take the elevator up to his floor. It’s almost comical watching him waddle down the hall with all the luggage.
“Keys,” he grits out through his teeth, “in my front-right pocket.”
I stick my hand in his pocket, riffling in the deep space until my fingers close around the keys. Women’s pants would never be able to hold the keys to begin with.
After unlocking the door, he dips his head for me to go in first. I’ve barely taken three steps when Cheddar flies out from under the couch, yowling excitedly.
“Cheddar!”
I’m about to bend down and scoop up the floof when Beckham yells out in a panic, “No bending over!”
I cringe. “Right.”
Beckham moves past me, headed down the hall to his room.
I figure while I can, I might as well stand as long as possible. He’ll be forcing me to sit or lie down soon enough.
That’s when I notice the additions to his apartment. My special bound copies of Jane Austen’s collection sit pretty on the coffee table. My favorite cheesy Christmas blanket with dancing elves and snowmen is draped over the couch. I spin around, and on the bookcase in the corner is my snow globe with the Empire State Building inside. It was a gift I got for myself when I was fifteen, a reminder that one day I’d live here.
I tiptoe into the kitchen and open the cabinets, where I find my plates and cups filling the shelves alongside his.
I should be mad, panicking. Instead, tears spring to my eyes because he went out of his way to make sure I had my stuff, my comforts, and as much as living with him scares me, I know it makes the most sense with me being on bed rest. Beckham will be able to look out for me far better than Laurel would.
He appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “You’ve been up long enough.”
“All my stuff is here.”
He wets his lips, pressing past me to the fridge. He swipes a bottle of water from within the depths, then grabs one of my pale-pink glasses with flowers on them. “It is.” He fills the glass and slides it over to me. “Did you think I’d insist you live here and not allow you to have your stuff?”
I take a tentative sip. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You continue to underestimate me.”
I set down the glass. “I suppose I do.”
I don’t mean to, but sometimes—scratch that, all the time—I find him hard to read.
He presses his body in front of me, caging me in to the counter. He ducks his head low, his hair tickling my forehead. “Before you move that cute ass down the hall to bed, can I kiss you?”
“Are you seriously asking for permission right now?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.”
I put my hand on his chest. “Since when do you ever do the right thing?”
He grins, that devastatingly handsome smile that makes my stomach somersault. “You’re right.”
Fingers delving into my hair at the back of my head, he yanks me forward in a possessive gesture that somehow still manages to be somewhat gentle with the way he holds my hip with his other hand.
He kisses me slow. Deep. I feel it all the way to my toes.
It isn’t long, and yet I’m somehow still left breathless.
“Now”—he smacks my ass—“bed for you.”
When Beckham said he took care of everything, he meant it, even going so far as to secure things with Jaci for me to work from home. The work-issued laptop sits on the bedside table, waiting for me to pick it up.
It doesn’t keep me from feeling disgruntled at being cooped up inside. I know what I’m doing is the best thing for the baby, but man, I’m already going stir crazy.
“I’m heading into the office for two hours.” Beckham holds up two fingers, wiggling them back and forth just in case I need the reminder on what two means. “I’ll be back, and I expect to find you here, or on the couch, and no—”
“Going to the bathroom or kitchen without notifying you of when I get up and when I return.” He clears his throat, waiting for me to finish. “And no checking out the mysterious door in the hall.”
“Good.” He shrugs his navy coat on the rest of the way, then picks up a gray-and-blue scarf to wrap around his neck.
In another world I’d grab that scarf and yank him into bed with me.
But alas, no sex.
“I’ll text you when I get to the office.” He looks at me in the bed. I’m sure I’m a ridiculous sight, pillows and blankets stuffed around me. The TV in the corner of the room plays a morning news channel, and Cheddar is asleep on top of the dresser.
I love that Beckham has let his cat take over the apartment. Cheddar does whatever he wants, including sleeping in the strangest of places.
Stress radiates off Beckham, from the tightness in his shoulders to the obvious way he’s clenching his jaw.
“I’ll be fine.”
He grabs his watch and fastens it onto his left wrist. “I really think I should hire a nurse to stay with you when I have to be gone.”
“That’s overkill.”
“But is it?”
I make a shooing gesture with my hand. “Get out of here. I’ll survive a few hours without you. Besides”—I reach for the laptop, and he’s there in an instant, passing it over—“I have work to do myself. You worry too much.”
He grunts out a noncommittal response. “Use your phone. Check in with me. I mean it.” He points a finger at me in warning as he edges toward the bedroom door. “And text if there’s anything you want me to bring back for lunch.”
“I will.”
That seems to appease him. With a nod, he raps his knuckles against the door, and I watch him disappear down the hall. A moment later the main door opens and shuts.
“Well, Cheddar”—the orange cat cracks an eye open—“it’s just me and you.” The baby chooses that moment to give me a sharp kick in the ribs, reminding me they’re there. “And you too, baby.”
When I get up for a potty break, I use my allotted time to check the forbidden room, as I’ve dubbed it. Beckham has labeled his guest room as off limits. Color me curious. But when I try the knob, the door is locked.
Damn him. Of course he suspected I’d try to get in here. What’s he hiding? A dead body? Am I the next victim?
I should get out while I can.
Instead, I tiptoe back to bed.
Cheddar has moved from the dresser to the chair in the corner, watching me as I slip back into bed. I shoot a text to Beckham letting him know I’ve returned from the bathroom.
Evil Baby Daddy: You were in the bathroom for 6 min and 28 seconds.
Me: You TIMED it?!
Evil Baby Daddy: Yeah. Why were you in there so long?
I wasn’t . . . I was trying to find a way into the Narnia room.
Me: I was taking a shit if you must know.
Evil Baby Daddy: I don’t believe you.
Me: You don’t have to. It’s the truth.
It’s a few minutes before I get his next reply.
Evil Baby Daddy: You were trying to get into the room, weren’t you?
Me: Absolutely not. You said it was off-limits. I’m a good girl. I listen.
Evil Baby Daddy: We both know you’re not a good girl.
Is it only me who senses a sexual innuendo there?
Me: Aren’t you supposed to be working?
Evil Baby Daddy: I’m walking to the subway. I need to shoot for Jaci in Central Park. I dropped by the office first.
Me: That means I have the pleasure of being annoyed by you until you get to your destination then?
Evil Baby Daddy: You catch on quickly. How are you feeling? I’m being serious.
Me: I feel fine. And I’m being serious too. I know I have to be careful, and I will be. I don’t want anything to happen to this baby, but I feel good.
After we left the hospital, we never took the time to discuss what happened—what could have happened—and how we felt about it. I think we’ve both been avoiding the conversation because it’s scary.
Evil Baby Daddy: I don’t want anything to happen to the little nugget. Or you.
Me: I know. I don’t either.
Evil Baby Daddy: I’ll leave you alone. Movie night, tonight?
Me: I’m pretty sure it’s movie night every evening for me now.
Evil Baby Daddy: I guess that’s true.
Me: But yes, I’m down
Evil Baby Daddy: It’s my turn to choose.
I smile at my phone. Me: Better pick a good one.
Evil Baby Daddy: Are you implying I don’t have impeccable taste? I did choose you to take care of my pet sperm.
Me: That was an accident and we both know it.
Evil Baby Daddy: But it was the best accident.
“Do you hear that?” I say to my belly, gently caressing it over the fabric of my oversize shirt—well, Beckham’s shirt. “Your daddy says you were the best accident. Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s right.”
The baby kicks like they agree.
Me: Focus on work. I need to do the same. I’ll check in. Promise.
He sends back a heart emoji.
A.
Heart.
Emoji.
I smile goofily at it, reading into it even when I know I shouldn’t.
