She sighs. “I know I’m being managed. I’m not stupid.” I lift her chin with my thumb and forefinger and coax her lips to mine for a kiss. Reluctantly, fighting it all the way, she gives in to a smile and heads back inside to do as I suggested.
Eli chuckles to himself.
“What?” I ask him.
“Damn, man,” he shakes his head, “if you have a little girl, you arescrewed.”
Oh, shit. “Yeah, I really am.” And that’s fuckin’ A-OK with me.
By the time Liaden,Eli, and I have done one drop off at mine, Sadie is curled up on the sofa with Gary pacing up and down along the back, muttering “Fuck’s sake, fucking fuck’s sake” in a quiet voice. Guess the little fella finds all this packing up to be unsettling. I stroke his head, which he’s finally just about willing to allow. Since Mrs Stewart arrived, he’s swearing more quietly, apparently trying to avoid offending the nice lady who feeds him seeds by hand and tells him what a handsome boy he is. Maybe I should do the same, see if I can win the fucker over good and proper. I do love him, and I’d love that kind of rapport with him now that we’ll be living under the same roof.
I smile as I hear the lilt ofGold Dust Womanby Fleetwood Mac playing softly in the background. It makes me think of fucking Sadie on the floor, a few feet away from where I’m standing right now, and I have to subtly adjust my jeans at the memory.Her thighs clamped around my waist, squeezing rhythmically as she got closer and closer to coming around my dick as it drove into her...Will you ever win…Fuck mylife, that was hot, and bears repeating on every possible surface in my own house as soon as everyone’s left.
I don’t know why, but I feel in my bones that was the time our baby was conceived. I could easily be wrong - probably am - but this is what my mind insists is true, and that’s what I’m choosing to believe. And I make a mental note to buy the kid some Fleetwood Mac feety pyjamas or a Lindsey Buckingham bib or something. There’s bound to be something like that on Etsy somewhere.
Sadie’s sniffling as she turns the page of one of the romance books she’s been mainlining lately. I peer at the cover.Lavender Moonby Natalie Parker. “Happy tears or sad?” I ask her.
“Both,” she cries, hugging the book to her chest and wiping under her eyes with a loud sniff. “Kaleb’s on active duty… And he just called Luna… Andhe’sneverheardhercrybeforrrrrre,” she sobs in a rush, and I need a second to catch up with what she actually said.
“Aww, Pumpkin,” I soothe her, hugging her shoulders with one arm and kissing the top of her head, “I’m sure there’s a happily ever after coming up soon. That’s what romance books are all about, right?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles in the sweetest fractured little hiccup. It makes me want to melt into treacle with how cute she is, and abruptly I feel a sense of deep joy at the idea of having a mini-Sadie to cuddle soon, to dry the kid’s tears when they’re sad and make them feel better again. Fatherhood is a massivelyintimidating prospect, as it should be, but… I also think I can do this. “Motherfucking hormones need to give it a rest.”
“You want some fruit? Will that help?” She’s all about fresh fruit these days, especially tropical fruits. She’s eaten enough pineapple and mango to make the man from Del Monte go white with shock.
“No thanks, I’m good.” Pause. “Actually…”
“On it.” Fortunately, Mrs Stewart has a large bowl of fruit salad ready and waiting in the fridge in anticipation of her daughter’s needs, and by the time I’ve dished some up and handed it to her, her eyes are dry again. Man, pregnancy must be a trip emotionally, to go from crying to fine so abruptly. Sadie wept like her heart was breaking the other day because her socks were on inside out. BB - Before Baby - she did that all the time and never even noticed.
“How’s it going?” she asks before putting a huge piece of pineapple in her mouth, and it looks so fresh and juicy that I pinch a chunk out of her bowl and eat it. My hand gets slapped as she snarls, “Hey, that was a good bit”, but she doesn’t really mind.
“The next lot is the last lot, so we can head to my - toourplace with it.” I grin. I’ve been so excited for this day to come, and I can’t wait to get herin situ. I feel like my house will finally be a home once she lives there, like a piece that’s always been missing will finally be present.
I watch her look around the room from her sofa, over the boxes and carrier bags, and I finally see what I’ve been hoping for,prayingfor, ever since I asked her to move in.
I see excitement. The same excitementIfeel reflected back at me.
And then it fades.
“I hope you don’t end up regretting this,” she says softly, in a very un-Sadie tone.
How can she think that’s in any way a possibility?Hell no. If my woman ever feels insecure, I’m not resting until she’s feeling like my Boudicca again.
“I won’t,” I say instantly, without any hesitation. “This is the best decision I ever made.” She gives me a small, tentative smile, and I want it to be bigger. “But hey, if my rancid shrimp collection or midnight yodelling gets to be too much for you, you could move straight back in here. With your mother.” She narrows her eyes at me playfully, trying to suppress a grin and failing.Gotcha, baby. “Just saying.”
Forty five minutes later,she’s said a tearful goodbye to her mother and arrived at our home, and everyone has dropped everything off and left.
Three minutes later, we have our first spat.
“Seriously?” she bites out, hands on hips as she glares at me, torn between annoyance and amusement.
I secretly - maybe not so secretly - love to see her all riled up. Her eyes take on this sparkle, and her skin glows as though lit up from within. I’m here for it. And that may be why I hung a vintageFriday the Thirteenth: The Final Chapterposter up in the nursery-to-be.
“What’s wrong with Jason?” I tease. “And besides, monochrome decor is meant to be good for a baby’s cerebral development. Liaden said so,andI read it in one of the pregnancy books. I left copies on your bedside table if you wanna confirm…”
Her eyes flash. “OK, one: I’ve read plenty, dickface. I’m preparing, too. And two: monochrome is one thing, but a hockey mask with a knife stabbed through its eye staring down at our baby? Not at all traumatising,” she says sarcastically, holding her hands up. “Since monochrome is sooooo important, why not hang up photos of Art the Clown and have done with it, arsehead?”
I sigh playfully. “Fine, no masked killers in the baby’s room. And hey, I’m doing everything I can to prep for our little peanut there. And since you’re the one with the uterus actuallydoingthe thing, all I can do is read up about it and try to be a good baby daddy.”
