“Uh.” I am not a man of many words. It’s why I don’t have many friends. “I don’t think you have good survival instincts,” I say to her stomach, wincing at the harsh kick my hand receives. Good God, doesn’t this hurt Skye? But instead of reacting in pain, the woman just pats my hand. “I am not the kind of man you should get attached to, kid.”
Another kick—or maybe it’s a punch. But baby shifts, so I follow it with my hand. “As a matter of fact, I am bad news for you and your mom.”
Skye scoffs, wiggling further into the armchair like she can’t get comfortable. I should offer to move her to the sofa, but I’m locked at her feet, trapped by this unborn baby and its movements and by those bright blue eyes on me.
“You aren’t bad news,” Skye says, taking me by surprise. I look up, taking in the tilt of her lips, the flush of her cheeks. “I know bad news. You’re just grumpy.”
I quirk a brow, amused. “Grumpy?”
“Yes.” She gives a definite nod as she shifts again. “God, this chair is limper than a wet noodle.”
“Limper?” I frown, staring at her face, which is scrunched up in frustration, then at the armchair. “You mean it’s not plush anymore?”
Skye waves a dismissive hand before letting out a sigh. “Yeah, whatever.” Her gaze meets mine, and I am once again struck by how beautiful she is. With only the fire to illuminate her face, her features appear softer, but her hair looks like liquid night. She’s every bad thing I know I shouldn’t want.
A small, hesitant smile pulls at her lips as she tries to sit forward again. “Any chance you could get me a pillow?”
I blink hard and nod. Without a word, I grab one of my pillows off the sofa, standing to wedge it behind her back. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, one that has my stomach clenching in a way that makes me tense.
When I look down, I find her eyes already on me, face tipped towards mine. It brings us impossibly close, inches apart. I can smell her shampoo clinging to her hair when I breathe in, the whisper of her vanilla perfume.
Skye’s lips part, and I can’t help but watch the motion. Her lips are plush, soft. This close, I notice the small, clear stud in her nose. It makes me wonder if she has anything else hidden beneath my clothing.
I pull back sharply and clear my throat. “Better?” I ask, forcing myself to take a step back.
Colour darkens her cheeks as she nods quickly. “Yes. Thank you.” She settles back and wraps her arms around herself, leaning her forearms against her stomach.
I make myself return to the sofa. “Any more…cramps? Signs you might give birth?”
Skye shakes her head. “No. Which is a good thing. And she’s moving around, so I’m not worried. I think we might just make it out of this storm.” The smile returns to her lips as she looks down at her stomach. “Little girl isn’t here yet.”
“You don’t want to have her this close to Christmas?” I ask, sitting back.
“God, no,” she scoffs, shaking her head. “You have no idea how hard I worked to make sure she wasn’t a Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or soon after baby. And don’t get me started on New Year’s Eve or Day. I want her to have a day that’s all her own. I refuse to let her share a birthday with corporate America.”
The corners of my own lips twitch in a smile. “That so?”
“Yes,” she huffs, looking at me. “When’s your birthday?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I take a moment to come up with an answer, despite it being so fucking easy. “December twenty-fifth.”
Skye looks at me like I’m joking for a moment before coughing up a laugh, eyes widening. “Serious?”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“You’re a Christmas baby!” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I am so sorry.”
I shrug. “What for?”
“I was making fun of…” She trails off, dropping her hand. It gives me a full view of the colour darkening her cheeks. “Oh, I am sorry.”
Again, I shrug and lean forward. “It means literally nothing to me,” I reply honestly. “Never mattered.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
“Because I never really had much of a birthday to celebrate, and when you jump from foster home to foster home, Christmas means sweet fuck all.”
I’ve always been blunt about my upbringing. Never minced my words about being in foster care or my past as a whole. I’ve never gone out of my way to tell my story, but it’s not something I hide. It happened, and it was bad, but I can’t go back and change it.
