I feel Ian wake up, his arm curving around to hold me in place.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Just a little longer.”
“Just a little,” I agree, breathing him in. He smells like cedar, as always, but now he has the faint scent of newborn baby clinging to him, too, and the combination is the ultimate aphrodisiac. If there weren’t a dozen of his family members milling around the room, chatting quietly over coffee and tea and toast, I might climb into his lap.
Just the decision to stand up to Richard has me feeling a little unleashed, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still married. I have a couple difficult conversations to have with my husband and kids—and Eomma, too—before I can be part of a real family with Ian. But damn if I’m not ready to make my own rules.
“Want coffee?” Ian rumbles, his hand stroking my upper arm. The gentle caress raises goosebumps all down the right side of my body. “I don’t know if they have soy milk, but I can run out and get you some.”
“You’re sweet, but I need to go. Work day, and I should probably get dressed.” I sit up, regretfullyleaving the warm circle of his arm, and make a face as I stretch and my neck twinges.
His ears prick forward. “Are you okay?”
I grimace as I feel for the sore spot and try to rub it out. “Yeah, just a little knot from sleeping at a weird angle. Hazards of aging. You’ll see. The day you turn forty it’s like your body goes on strike.”
“Let me.” He adjusts our positions on the sofa, then grasps my shoulders with his huge, warm hands. His thumbs work their way up my neck in slow circles, chasing away the pain as my muscles succumb to the massage. After a few minutes of this heavenly treatment, he pauses. “Good?”
“Yeah,” I say, sounding a little too breathless for eight a.m. on a Friday. I push myself up out of the deep sofa cushions, feeling suddenly shy about wearing my night clothes in the light of day. It’s dumb. Everyone, from Ian’s mom to his little nieces and nephews running around with jam on their faces, is still in their pajamas. Like he said last night when he sent me that way-too-coercive pic of his lap where I could see the outline of his dick through the plaid flannel fabric, I fit right in.
“You should eat.” He eyes my belly, so I’m guessing he means for the babies.
“I will at home,” I assure him. “I’m not a meal-skipper.”
He grab my hand and kisses my knuckles, the soft brush of his whiskers making my fingers curl reflexively. “Let me take you out. I know a great brunch place, and your shift doesn’t start until eleven.”
Oh, right. He has my work schedule in his calendar. But I really want to take a long, hot shower and cry this morning. It’s not that I’m sad about meeting the babies. It’s just shown me everything I almost gave up. I can’t believe how willing I was to walk away fromthis. Before-Richard Julia,realJulia, never would have considered it.
“Ian…” I start, but he’s already released my hand.
“I know,” he says with a cheeky grin that I know is hiding his disappointment. “Can’t blame a wolf for trying.”
Three weeks into November, and I have officially become that pregnant lady who texts her baby daddy at two in the morning about my cravings.
Julia: “I need kimchi fried rice. I might die without it, and I used up the last of my kimchi batch at lunch.”
Ian: “How close to dying are we?”
Julia: “My soul is leaving my body as we speak.”
Ian: “Which restaurant?”
Julia: “Anywhere that’s open. I don’t care. I’m desperate.”
Twenty-three minutes later, I get a text with a wolf emoji. I waddle to the front door in my robe, mouth already watering, and collect the paper bag on the welcome mat. Ian’s Jeep is pulling out of the driveway, his headlights flashing once in what I’ve come to recognize as his signature goodbye.
He never comes inside or even waits for me to open the door. Not once in all the late-night-cravings deliveries, which have become embarrassingly regular. Not when he brought me the spicy pork belly I couldn’t stop obsessing over after having it for lunch, or the black sesame ice cream that made me weep with gratitude, or the emergency supply of sour gummy worms and beef jerky.
He just leaves the food, texts, and drives away.
It’s maddeningly polite. It’s also, I’m realizing, exactly what I asked for. Clear, respectful boundaries. No line getting blurred by flirting on the porch.
Except my lines are feeling all blurry when I’m balancing a bowl of kimchi fried rice on my pregnant belly at 2:47 a.m., reading the little note he tucked into the bag:Sweet dreams, pretty girl.
I hide the note in my nightstand drawer with the others. I have seven of them now.
Ian shows up at Dog-Eared Pages twice a week, minimum, always with a legitimate purchase as an excuse.What to Expect When Your Mate is Expecting.Raising Bilingual Pups. Not to mention stacks and stacks of children’s books.
Today, he’s browsing the pregnancy section again while I restock the holiday cookbooks. Cashleigh is watching him like a hawk, eager to scoop up the commission, so I keep my interactions friendly but brief. The model employee with a regular customer. I can’t afford to lose my job if I want to fly my mom out in a couple months.
