Noah:Count on it.
???
I hear the key in the lock a moment before the door swings open to reveal an exhausted-looking but nonetheless, handsome Noah standing in my front entry. His arms are full of grocery bags. He deposits them on the kitchen island then does a double take when he finds me sprawled out on the nearby couch in my sweats.
“What are you doing up so early?” he asks, striding towards me.
“This little punk’s been doing jumping jacks in here since 6:00 am,” I reply, pointing at my belly.
“Aw,” he says, dropping down onto the couch beside me. “I thought for sure you’d be asleep for another hour at least. I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”
“Damn, I really have you trained well, don’t I?” I murmur with a tired smile.
He barks out a startled laugh, his dimples popping.
“I guess you do.”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then my lips, and finally to my belly. “Be nice to your mamma,” he whispers into my sweatshirt, “okay little one? It’s important she gets her rest.”
My heart.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower and then I’ll get started on breakfast, alright?” he says pushing up to his feet.
“Sounds good. Pancakes?”
He nods. “You know it. Do you want chocolate chip or blueberries?”
“Both please!”
???
“Be honest, are you crying about the commercial with the raccoon in it?” I glance up, hastily wiping the tears from my face. Noah is back in the kitchen wearing, yep, grey sweats and a black t-shirt that stretches enticingly over the corded muscles of his chest and arms. It’s rare to see him so dressed down, even when we’re lounging. That’s how I know he had a really rough night. Still, his eyes are dancing with amusement and the corners of his mouth are tipped up in a knowing smirk.
“No,” I answer him, “I was not.”
I watch as he measures out the milk, adding it to the pancake mix and stirring methodically.
“Pretty sure you were,” he says lightly.
I roll my eyes, pushing up awkwardly from the couch.
“Fine, yes, but it’s just so cute! And the poor little guy has to dig through dumpsters toeat.Dumpsters, Noah!”
“It’s just a commercial baby,” he chuckles as I approach.
I sigh. “I know. It’s these damn hormones.”
He sets down the bowl and reaches for me, pulling me tightly into his embrace and tucking my head beneath his chin. He slides his hand up so his fingers can play with my hair and I hum happily into his touch. After a moment he pulls away and resumes cooking, pouring the batter into the pan. I grab the maple syrup from the pantry (the real deal, none of that fake corn syrup crap) and start unpacking the rest of the groceries he brought.
“Sweet! Pickled onions!” I exclaim.
“Yes, and I got you that cinnamon cereal too.”
“You remembered?”
“I have a cravings list,” he offers smugly.
“Of course you do,” I smile.
