Seth’s hand brushes mine, and I glance up. Tension is etched in the line of his jaw and he stares forward. I can’t tell if the contact was intentional or not. Then it happens again. I press my lips together to mask a smile, and thread my fingers between his, aligning our palms. The big, tough man needs emotional support but doesn’t want to show his weakness. Good thing I can read his cues.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks, drawing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.
“Positive,” I confirm. “Are you?”
He nods. “I just wish I could stay with you while they… you know.”
Guilt tears through me. The fact is, he could stay with me and do his part either before or after, but I specifically asked the clinic to book us simultaneously because of my insistent need to prove to myself that I’m not dependent on him for my strength and courage anymore.
“I’ll be fine.” I extract my hand from his as we approach the ward’s reception desk. “Hi.” I smile at the woman behind it. “Ashlin and Seth Isles.”
Seth’s quick intake of breath draws my attention, and when I glance up at him, an unusual sight greets me. He’s beaming. But why? I mentally track back through the last few moments. Is it the fact I introduced us like a married couple? Does it mean something to him that I kept his name? Honestly, it seemed like too much paperwork to bother changing it. Although there’s a possibility I wasn’t ready to kiss my last connection to this man goodbye. Even when I was angry at him—which was often, near the end—I never stopped loving him. I asked for a divorce because I depended on him too much, and when I needed to grieve, he wasn’t there. It felt like I was experiencing the loss on my own.
“Please, take a seat,” the receptionist tells us. “Mr. Isles, someone will be here for you shortly. Mrs. Isles, the doctor is running a few minutes behind, but it shouldn’t take too long.”
“Thank you.”
We sit, and within thirty seconds, someone has arrived to escort Seth to the room where he’s expected to make himself come into a sample jar.
Ah, God.
Automatically, images fill my mind of Seth wrapping a hand around his dick and jerking. Of his eyes turning dark and focusing on me like he’s a mountain lion with a deer in his sights. Imagining the growl he makes as he comes, and the way he’d lose control. Making him shudder and curse used to be my favorite activity. There’s a sense of power that comes from having a man like Iron-Shin Seth Isles at my sensual mercy. I squirm, pressing my thighs together. This is not the time to get turned on. I’m about to have a doctor poking around in my privates.
Enough time passes that I’m concerned Seth may finish before I’m called in, but then Dr. Slater appears in the doorway and nods for me to follow her down the corridor. They explain what will happen and then sedate me. The next thing I know, I’m slowly coming to in a recovery room. Seth is lurking in the corner.
When he notices that I’ve woken, he strides over and kisses my forehead. “You okay, honey?”
“Mmhmm.” I’m still not fully awake yet, so I lie back and close my eyes. After napping on and off for what feels like minutes but is probably longer, my thoughts grow less muddled. I’m able to have a short conversation with Seth and the doctor, during which she advises me to take it easy and not drive for the rest of the day. When she discharges me, I have to lean on Seth’s chest for support since my muscles feel weak.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I have no idea why. That seems to be the status quo lately. The hormone injections are making me temperamental, with a hair trigger when it comes to crying. I bury my face in his chest. I know I should pull away and try to stand on my own, but he’s broad and strong, and resting my head on him is so tempting. I close my eyes, and snuggle closer. He smooths a hand over my hair and tucks me beneath his chin. Sometimes, there are benefits to being short. I breathe in his scent, which is spicy from the liniment he applies after working out. So familiar. In many ways, so damn good.
Finally, I force myself to draw back. “We should go.”
A groove forms between his brows, and heat rushes through me. He looks concerned, and part of me wants to rub my thumb over the indent and reassure him that everything is fine. The rest of me knows to keep my distance.
“But you’re upset.”
“No, I’m not.” I swipe at the moisture on my eyelashes and release a shaky breath. “I’m just emotional. It’s the hormones.” Plus I’m feeling raw. The procedure makes everything that’s happening real, which means that my chance of getting pregnant is real, but so is the chance I won’t, or that I’ll miscarry again. I’ve been going forward with blind faith, but soon I’m going to have to look reality in the eye, and I’m not sure I’ll like what I see.
Seth must read some of my tangled feelings in my expression, because his jaw firms and he adopts what I think of as his don’t-mess-with-the-coach stance. “Nuh-uh. You and I are getting an ice cream, and we’re going to talk.”
“I’m eating healthy because it maximizes the likelihood of a successful pregnancy.”
He huffs. “Frozen yogurt, then.” He ushers me toward the exit, his hand on my back. “Don’t bother arguing, Ash.”
I don’t, because when he gets this way, arguing with him is a waste of energy. Besides, I do like the sound of frozen yogurt. We leave together, and he drives me to a nearby fro-yo place. We both get strawberry, although I add fruit while he loads up with chocolate sprinkles and nuts. Once we have our food, we sit at the bar in the window and eat. It’s nice. I don’t keep company with many men these days, and I’ve forgotten how good it can feel to sit silently with one.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says after a while. “Did something happen during your appointment?”
“No.” I sigh. “It’s just sinking in that this is really happening, and I’m going to have to face the fallout soon, whether it’s good or not.”
He looks up from his yogurt. There’s a smear of pink on his upper lip and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve wiped it off with a napkin. We both freeze. His nostrils flare. And then I drop my hand away before I do something stupid like caress him. Stupid muscle memory. It’s harder to resist old habits when I’m tired. A rumble sounds in his throat. I stare into my bowl, refusing to meet his eyes even though I know he’s waiting for me to do so.
“Are you afraid it won’t work?” he asks eventually.
“Yes,” I confess. “Or that it will, and then…” I can’t bring myself to finish.
