It’s not like the job is hard. Although I suppose working under me isn’t easy. I like things a certain way. And by that, I mean perfect. But it’s not impossible. If it were impossible, that would mean nobody could ever do it. And someone has done it—perfectly, no less.
As I get in my car, I pause. I don’t want to go home. Well, I do. I guess I should say I don’t want to go to my father’s estate. It hasnever felt like home to me. And it’s even less that now that Jenica is there. I’m sure right now she’s laying around on the couch, watching some trashy TV, taking selfies and texting her friends. Either that, or she’s drinking juiced celery and running her fifth mile on the treadmill.
I can’t help but wonder what Amara is doing. If she’s okay. If she needs anything.
I think about texting her but put my phone away. It’s my house. I don’t need to have a reason to go there.
When I unlock the door and walk in, Amara looks startled. She’s standing in the kitchen with the fridge door open, wearing leggings and a hoodie.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“It’s my house,” I say, trying to be funny. Her face tells me I’m not.
“But you don’t live here. You live—” she stops and goes back to looking in the fridge.
“I brought you dinner,” I say and slowly she turns to look at me.
“What did you bring?” she asks. Jesus. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s not happy with me.
I set the bag on the counter and pull out the containers. “A cobb salad with grilled chicken and?—”
“A salad?” She cuts me off. “What are you trying to say, Ransome?”
I narrow my eyes. “What…”
“Do Ineeda salad?”
“You need to eat,” I say, opening it up.
“I need to eat salad?” she asks. “That’s code for you thinking I’m fat.”
I almost laugh. “It’s got bacon on it,” I tell her. “I also got you a cheddar and broccoli soup because I didn’t know what you’d be hungry for. Fresh fruit. And a cookie.”
She studies the food as I set it out. Then she grabs the cookie, unwraps it, and takes a bite, chewing it spitefully as she stares at me.
I run my hand through my hair. I don’t really know what I was expecting when I got here, but not this.
I look around the room and open the blinds. “You need light. Sunlight is good for you and the baby,” I say. “And it’s cold in here. Are you cold? Let me feel your hands.”
Before she can respond, I close the space between us and take the hand that’s not holding the cookie in mine.
It’s cold. Small. Soft.
And it sends an electric jolt through my body.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to touch her.
Her chewing slows. She sets the cookie down, staring up at me. There’s the tiniest speck of chocolate in the corner of her mouth, and I want to kiss it off. To lick it off.
But obviously, I don’t. Instead I use my thumb, brushing from the middle of her lips across the corner and over her cheek.
Then I pull away.
“You should eat,” I tell her. “You need to stay nourished.”
“Of course,” she says softly. So very softly. I’ve heard her voice like that before. It’s the same sound she makes when I brush my fingertips across her nipples. Or when my hot breath touches her pussy just before I cover her with my mouth to devour her.
“Did you like the gifts I sent?” I ask, turning my back to her so I can adjust my dick in my pants, though at this point even tucking it in my belt won’t hide my hard-on.
