And not with the feel of Anton’s words, warm and dangerous on my fingertips, as I slip them beneath the blankets.
16
The next morning,I wake slowly, my mind climbing toward the surface through warm water instead of sheets. Pregnancy sleep is totally inhuman. It’s more like hibernation.
Then, something savory drifts in from another room.
Anton is cooking again.
That man and his kitchen skills… I’m already a curvy girl, and this man is going to mean a new wardrobe. And I don’t mean maternity clothes. He has a knack with his hands. The woodwork, the way he dices vegetables like some sort of chef ninja.
And I already know how he usesthem in bed…
That one-night stand will live in my memory for years. Maybe forever.
I sit up quickly, needing distance from the memory before it settles too deeply. My lower back twinges the way it always does lately—my psoas, according to my new-mother book—and I stretch out the stiffness with a breath.
The soft clink of a pan echoes up the staircase. Anton’s music lingers up, as well. I’m more of a Beyoncé, Raye kind of girl myself, but I kind of like his indie Brit pop and edgier sound.
The lyrics hit me in the gut—something about not wanting to be here, about satisfaction feeling like a distant memory.
Ain’t that the truth, Arctic Monkeys. Satisfaction is a distant memory and…will it always be?
I never really considered what happens when Anton and I come out the other side of this as settled parents, where we’ve figured out a routine, our child is happy…and so damn cute.
Am I really going to be with someone else? Or am I going full-on celibate?
My stomach clenches in hunger. Pregnant hunger, which thankfully is enough for me to ignore that question for now and grab a quick shower. I only think about the sad idea of celibacy three more times before I get my uniform on—just barely—need new pants, stat.
I spritzed myself with YSL Black Opium (which I normally save for best, but I need the pick me up) and straighten the shirt that barely buttons over my chest or my little bump, and pad down the stairs.
Anton stands with his back to me at the stove, tall and broad and unfairly composed in sweatpants and a dark tee.He moves with deliberate focus, the kind that’s both calming and intimidating.
“Are you making breakfast or interrogating those eggs?” I ask.
He turns fast and when his eyes find me, he offers a smile. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I answer.
He gestures toward the counter. “Toast, eggs, potatoes. Didn’t know what you could handle.”
“Everything,” I say. “Though I should watch what I eat.”
“Why?”
I shift myself onto one of the breakfast bar stools. “You’re a feeder. And I’m eating for two but…you know, they say it’s hard to get your figure back, and I was already trying to do that before I got pregnant.”
He turns—slowly—and the look he gives me could melt steel.
“Freya”—his voice is unshakably calm— “if you think for one second that I want less of you…” His eyes sweep down my body. “You’re not paying attention.” He takes one step closer and pierces me with those baby blues. “There’s not a damn thing about your body anyone should want to erase or ‘get back.’”
His gaze drops to my belly. “If we can’t celebrate miracles anymore, this world is more broken than I thought.”
He nods and turns back to the stove as if he didn’t just knock the wind out of me. In one fell swoop, the man worshipped me and gave me every reason to worship myself.
Why did he say that?I’m not paying attention? He doesn’t want any less of me…in what way? Physically?
Because damn, we are on the same page with that.
