Page 97 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

“You love it, and you know it,” I said, walking over and sitting beside him on the sofa.

“I love you,” he corrected instantly, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me into his side. “The rest of these people are a test from the Lord.”

“Winston would lose his mind if he saw you right now,” I murmured, resting my head against his shoulder.

Amai’s hand flattened against my hip, his grip firm and familiar. “Winston ain’t got a damn thing to do with this house. You see how sickly he looks lately?”

“You know I don’t pay that man no mind. I only go by there so Odette can see Tru, but yeah I noticed his ass looking like The Walking Dead. You asked your mom about it?”

“Fuck him. I hope his ass dying.”

“Don’t say that. He’s still your daddy.”

“Tuh,” Amai shrugged.

Right on cue, Mama walked out of the kitchen with a damp rag thrown over her shoulder, pointing a wooden spoon directly at Amai’s chest.

“Amai Landry, stop feeling up my daughter in broad daylight and get your big behind up to bring that extra folding table from the back shed. Honor brought Terrance, and that man eats like he ain’t got no home training.”

Amai didn’t hesitate. He didn’t puff his chest or pull rank. He just kissed the temple of my head, stood up, and said, “Yes, ma’am. Coming right now.”

I watched his broad back disappear down the hallway toward the back porch.

A year ago, if somebody had told me that Amai Landry would be fetching folding tables for Delphine Renois in the Seventh Ward, I would’ve told them they were smoking crack and not the cheap kind. But watching him move through my mama’s house with that easy, settled authority made something warm and solid settle in my heart.

Amai never had this with his family from what he told me and what I’ve witnessed. His family we weird as fuck and didn’t have compassion for each other.

A few minutes later, Honor walked in, carrying our daughter.

Trumai was three months old now, growing fast, with a thick crown of soft black curls, skin like warm caramel, and eyes so dark and observant they made people stop on the street. She was dressed in a little lavender onesie that mama had bought from the flea market, her tiny feet kicking against the fabric.

“Look at this chunky butt,” Honor said, passing the baby into my arms. “She was back there trying to chew on Terrance’s watch. She greedy just like you, Truth.”

“She is not greedy,” I said, kissing Tru’s chubby cheek until she let out a tiny, gummy gurgle. “She’s well-nourished.”

Amai walked back in, carrying the heavy plastic folding table under one arm like it weighed ten pounds. The second his eyes landed on Trumai, his entire face shifted. The sharp, guarded edge that never completely left his eyes softened until there was nothing left but open, unashamed devotion.

He dropped the table against the wall, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked straight to us.

“Give me my girl,” he said, not even waiting for an answer as he leaned down and carefully scooped Trumai out of my arms.

Her spoiled butt didn’t even make a fuss. The moment she hit Amai’s broad chest, she gave a tiny sigh, nuzzled her face against the warm black cotton of his shirt, and let her thumb drift toward her mouth. Amai sat back down on the sofa, resting his large, battle scarred hand over her entire back, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles between her shoulder blades.

Within two minutes, her breathing slowed, and her little eyelids fluttered shut into a deep, love-drunk sleep.

Amai looked down at her like she was the only thing breathing in the entire city.

“You’re ruined,” I whispered, smiling at him.

He didn’t look up from her face. “Completely.”

By late afternoon, the house had thinned out. Honor had wrangled her kids into the minivan with Terrance, Raven had gone to run errands with Priest, and Mama was in the back bedroom, taking her post-dinner nap with the fan on high.

The baby was sleeping in the portable bassinet near the dining table. Amai and I walked out onto the small back porch, leaning against the wooden railing where the late-afternoon breeze stirred the heavy humidity coming off the river.

Amai stood behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his arms wrapped around my waist with his chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

“You got two weeks of clinicals left at University Medical,” he said quietly, his lips brushing against the sensitive curve of my neck.