The kettle boiled behind her, its increasing noise volume likely the reason for Beaker’s blur through the kitchen.
“Your mom doesn’t know you, Francesca.”
She shrugged. “She’s my mother.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t know you. Like my dad doesn’t know me. Some people are too narcissistic to take the time to get deep with people. Your mom? She’s one of them. All she sees is surface.”
With her back still turned to me, she poured the hot water into the cups. “But surface can be very revealing. What my mother sees—it might be a surface snapshot, but it’s not wrong.”
“What does she see?”
Another hurt shrug. “That weird little girl with her ugly glasses and strange habits. I’ve grown up and turned my strangeness into a profession, into a successful career. But it doesn’t really change me at the core. I’m still the odd girl out.”
My younger self, that little asshole, hadn’t helped. When I met her, I thought of her as “Slug Girl,” the weird daughter of one of my sporting heroes. As fascinating as I found that contrast, her friendship with Sean had bugged the shit out of me. My jealousy of their closeness, as well as her clear disinterest in a dumb kid like me, prompted my childish taunts. Now I couldn’t imagine wishing her to be any different.
I moved behind her, circled her waist, and lay my chin on her shoulder.
“Why would you want to be like everyone else?”
“Because it … hurts less.” She heaved in my arms, releasing a sob that cut me to the quick.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Francesca, look at me.”
She whipped around, her eyes red, tears streaming. She stared up at me, that stubborn chin set defiantly.
“I’m glad you’re different from everyone else. Because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t have figured out the baby plan with that amazing brain of yours. You wouldn’t have carved out this path to motherhood or even considered adding someone like me to your list. And I know you wouldn’t have disguised yourself as some chick out of Ocean’s Eight to fool a bunch of hockey players. Most of all, I’m glad you’re different because I love watching you think, how you weigh it all up before pronouncing, how your nose twitches and you get this little crimp between your brows while you’re working stuff out.” I touched that little crimp now, smoothing it with my thumb. “You’re one in a million, Francesca. And fuck anyone who doesn’t appreciate that.”
Her chest heaved. “I-I know you’re trying to help?—”
I kissed her. Not sure it would help her but it sure as hell would help me. All night, I’d watched her in the crowd, trying her best not to be blinded by the spotlight in which her pregnancy had placed her. A spotlight not made easier by the fact a famous pro-athlete was the father.
The appearance of her mother should have been a boon. But a woman like Kendra hated that her daughter—her strange, beautiful blessing of a daughter—was the center of attention.
“Jason,” she murmured against my lips. “You don’t have to?—”
“But I do. I’ve wanted to do that all night. I’ve wanted to touch you and hold you and kiss you and do absolutely filthy things to you.”
Her eyes went dark and smoky. “What things?”
“Not sure your delicate ears could handle them.”
She moved a hand between my legs and cupped my straining cock. “Tell me.”
I could have viewed that as a threat—the words, her hand, that fiery look in her eyes—but instead I considered it as an opportunity. A chance to get deep and dirty with this woman after months without her touch.
“Want me to show, not tell?”
“I want you to show and tell.”
Franky got off on the verbal, so I had no problem there. I lifted her skirt to her hips and found the border of her tights, nestled below that rounded belly. “Gonna need these off.”
“D-do it.”
I pulled at the elastic, then hunkered down to finish the job, or at least as far as the tops of her boots. A problem for later.
