My stomach rolls and I absolutely lose what little appetite I already have.
Anna’s declaration rocks me back so harshly, Braxton’s hand lands on my lower back to steady me.
“Excuse me?” I ask. I had to have misheard her.
Based on the anger suffusing Anna’s features, I absolutely haven’t.
“Cara,” Braxton says. My head snaps to his, and I don’t know if he can see my shock that’s quickly mingling with anger, but do I even have the right? We’re not together.
We’ve never been together.
Technically, tonight’s our first date, and of course he’s had women before me, and in the last couple of months.
Unfortunately, none of the logic quickly racing through my mind is settling the effect this news has on my nerves.
“Don’t.” I shake my head, stepping away from his touch. Already my face is feeling flush with heat and embarrassment.
I turn to Marco and mutter, “Excuse me.”
As I’m turning to walk away, I still hear Braxton say, “You have no idea what you’re talking about right now but throwing that down was bullshit, and makes me glad as soon as you disappeared into your Uber, I wiped that night from my memory.”
Oh crap. What a jerk! I can’t believe any of this, but why am I so surprised?
Why am I so hurt? So he slept with someone last weekend. He has every right to do so. We’re not together, and of course he dates one woman at a time. Although perhaps it does explain why he never returned my text.
My hands are trembling so profoundly it’s virtually impossible to push down on the door handle. It takes me several tries before the handle doesn’t slip out of my hands and it’s just enough time for Braxton to reach me.
“Listen to me.” His body heat crowds my back and he pushes both of us into the room, letting the door close behind us.
I jump from the harsh sound of the lock clicking and refuse to face him.
I cannot believe this is happening with a client of the gallery.
Luca is going to murder me for causing such a scene. And Anna? She not only works for Marco, she works for an agency that represents and promotes the most up-and-coming artists on the West Coast.
She’s not only viciously astute in the art world, she has connections like I would if I would have gone into law with my father.
This has disaster for Luca’s gallery written all over it.
“Don’t.” I drop my head into my hands, trying to calm my breathing. When I get upset or stressed, my stomach knots, which is the last thing I need. “Don’t say anything. You don’t owe me an explanation.”
He fucked me just last week.
Her shrill voice is a Ping-Pong ball inside my brain.
“Cara.” Braxton’s hand lands on my shoulder. His touch is gentle but warm, radiating heat beneath the thin layer of my cap-sleeved dress.
I shake my shoulder, but he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he steps up closer, until his chest is flush with my back and his hand on my shoulder slides down my arm until his palm is at my stomach—covering my stomach, where our child grows.
I’m going to be sick.
“You’re right. I don’t owe you an explanation. I was with that woman before you ever came into MadInk, Cara, before I knew about you.”
All my runaway thoughts screech to a halt and my hands drop from my face. “What?”
“Yes.” He’s laughing now, shoulders shaking, bumping against me, and I know he’s not doing it to be mean, but is there anything really funny about this? I can’t find the humor.
His hand on my stomach presses in, and he shifts me, turning me so we’re face to face and his hand is at my back. “You might still be pissed when I tell you it was the night before you came into MadInk, but if I’m going to be completely honest, for the last two months, every time I was with a woman, I was honestly just trying to fuck the memory of you out of my head.”
“That’s disgusting.” My brows furrow. If he thinks I’ll be flattered by his admission, I’m not.
“Might be, but it’s also real.” He cups the side of my neck, holding me gently. His thumb brushes back and forth against my sensitive skin, igniting pops of pleasure skipping down the length of my arms and chest. “What’s also real is that since we spent that night together, I’ve thought about little else besides being inside you again. So you can be upset I’m not a monk, upset I can treat someone like Abby—”
“Anna—”
“Whatever.” He grins. “Whoever. It’s not the point, and neither is she. You can be upset I would treat someone like her so callously, but it doesn’t change the fact that before she came home with me, she came on to me, she bought me a drink. She knew exactly what she was getting into when she slid into the car next to me and when I called her an Uber and sent her home. But don’t be upset that it all happened before you waltzed back into my life and told me you were having my child. That’s not fair.”
It’s not fair, and he’s right. While everything he’s saying is upsetting, it’s the way of the world and one-night stands, things I know so little about except through others. And is it really any worse than how I treated him?
All of my anger drains. Other than being embarrassed at her outburst, I don’t have a reason to be upset with Braxton.
“This is humiliating,” I mutter, pressing my hands to his chest. “I get what you’re saying, but I still don’t like it, and I don’t think I like knowing she’s been with you. I have to work with her occasionally.”
“And if I could change that for you, I would, but there’s nothing we can do about it except move on from it. Okay?”
He makes it sound so simple. I might be naive when it comes to one-night stands, but I’m not naive to how women behave when they feel they’ve been scorned. And if Anna believes she’s been wronged in some way, she still has the ability to make my job a living hell for the next several weeks.
I’ve been staring at his chest, at the dip in his throat where his dress shirt is unbuttoned because he’s gone sans tie. And now, I drag my gaze up the column of his throat, to his chiseled jaw and straight to his full, lush lips that have been all over me.
My body responds and his black eyes fire with lust at whatever he sees in my expression. I can only imagine what it is, because my body is responding to everything I see.
I’m flushed now, for an entirely different reason, so when he tilts his head and dips down, I don’t move away.
And when he presses his lips against mine, almost tenderly, like he’s testing to see if I’ll push him away, I don’t.
I inhale his masculine scent of spicy pine and man and my hands slide to his shoulder, seemingly on their own volition, and then my lips are parting as his tongue slides over my bottom lip and he dips inside.
And for the first time in months, I’m tasting him, inhaling his scent and digging fingers into his suit at his shoulders, and all of this is so familiar from our first time, I’m unable to stop the sensations rippling through my nerves, making me crave more of him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice gruff as he yanks away from my mouth and tilts my head. He kisses my throat, sliding his tongue and his mouth along the side of me, right to that perfect, hidden, and invisible spot that shoots desire straight to my core.
“Oh,” I whimper, fingers digging into his suit and gripping him harshly, pulling him to me as my hips roll, pressing against him.
His length is hard against my stomach, his hands tight at my hips, and his mouth is doing such wicked things to my throat, my jaw, working back to my mouth, that I can visualize where all of this is headed…where all of this has gone before.
But I don’t want it to be like last time, with so much uncertainty and complications between us, so even though I desperately want what he’s giving, I push his shoulders until he relents, leaning back from me.
“What?”
“I can’t.” I’m a gasping, breathless mess. “Not here,” I quickly amend.
“Okay.” He grins and presses his lips to mine. “Not here.”
“Not yet,” I quickly add, because sex isn’t on the table. Not tonight. Not this week or next.
If Braxton wants to date me, he has to do it my way.
Slowly. Intentionally. Not falling into bed because it feels so mind-blowing wonderful.
“Not yet?” he asks, and his lips are tilting up at the ends.
“No.”
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine, his lips pressed together like he’s fighting a laugh, and then his arms are around me, holding me tight to him, flush to his body, my hands on his chest pressed and sandwiched between us.
“I can take ‘not yet,’ ” he says, and I can hear the humor in his thick voice. “Because you’ve just told me it’ll happen again, and with how good we are together, trust me, I have no problems waiting until you’re ready.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He pulls back, one of his hands sliding up my back to cup the back of my neck. His look is serious, full of intent and desire, but also honesty. “Yes, Cara. Anything worth having is worth the wait.”
“Okay.” It comes out as a squeak, and Braxton laughs.
He pulls away from us, and reluctantly, I let him go, dropping my hands only to have one of them taken in his palm.
“Let’s go back out there, ignore Abby—”
“Anna.”
“Whoever, and get you home to bed. You need your rest.”
I stretch in bed, lazily shoving my arms above my head, my eyes jumping open when they hit a wood headboard I’m entirely unfamiliar with.
Sitting up, my stomach dips and a quick glance around settles my surprise, but not my stomach.
I’m in the guest room at Braxton’s, although I have no memory of the trip to either his place or the bedroom.
“Ugh.” I drop my head into my hand and groan. I must have fallen asleep on the way home. I barely remember saying good night to Luca.
I do recall the searing glare Anna sent me on our way out the door. It was one filled with “You’re such a tramp, forgiving a man who can cheat on you,” based on the way she also glared at my hand clasped with Braxton’s as we left the gallery.
Braxton had leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Ignore her. No one needs to know our story except those we choose to share it with. Okay?”
I’d mumbled an agreement, slid into the passenger seat of his car after he helped me in it, and remember nothing else.
“Damn,” I groan, and slide my legs out from beneath the thick, plush covers and stare at my legs.
They’re bare.
A quick check tells me I’m entirely naked save for the black satin underwear I was wearing the night before. I jump out of bed, my stomach rolling with such force I fall forward, slamming my hand onto the nightstand.
Damn it. I have to remember not to move so fast. And eat, as soon as I wake up. My hand brushes against something that makes a crinkling sound.
Yes. Damn, he’s good.
Crackers. Juice. One of my antinausea tablets, and a note.
Take me is scribbled on it. I shake my head and grin.
He apparently thinks of everything, including how to see me naked again.
My cheeks heat, and I quickly sit down on the bed, shoving a cracker into my mouth and almost draining the glass of juice before I take the tablet.
Lying back down on the bed, I drape an arm over my eyes, blocking out the morning light. I have no concept of what time it is, but I’ve learned that even after taking my meds, it’s best to lie still for a few minutes, nibble on a few crackers, and rise slowly. This morning’s jolt to awareness has me queasier than I’ve been in recent days, so it takes me longer, but eventually, I feel steadier. Once I do, I use the restroom and wash my hands, and only then do I spy the makeup kit I’d packed in an overnight bag on the counter. It includes travel-size toiletries and hair products.
A quick glance at my ruined mascara and matted hair tells me a shower is an excellent idea.
Braxton might want to see me naked, but in no way am I prepared to show off my zombie-preggo-lady look. I shower quickly, throw on minimal makeup, enough to cover up the still slightly green look from morning sickness complexion, and toss my hair into a messy knot on top of my head. It’s when I’m sliding into my most comfortable, stretchy pair of yoga pants that I catch my profile in the mirror and cringe.
The pants are tight, digging into my stomach and sides above my hips.
And it’s like the air stills while my hand settles on my stomach. It’s no longer just a nightly bloat.
I’m showing. It should make me uncomfortable or scare me, shouldn’t it? But as I stare into the mirror, I catch my own soft grin.
I’m having a baby. A real-life baby and it’s unexpected and with an unexpected guy, but so far, Braxton’s the kind of guy I’d imagine myself with.
His idea of dating doesn’t seem so scary now. He’s definitely good at following through on taking care of me and he’s handled all of this with such confidence. He’s becoming my calm strength in the midst of what could be a brutal storm. I might not know him well, but I know enough to know he won’t let any hint of that storm come close to me.
He’s not only a great guy, he’s also really, really sexy. A girl could do much worse, but I’m not sure it gets much better.
I grab my empty juice glass and sleeve of crackers intent on heading to find him, but as soon as I open my bedroom door, I come to an abrupt stop, almost tripping over a waggling tail, sad puppy dog eyes, and a happy tongue lolling out of Lucy’s mouth.
“Hey, girl,” I say, crouching down and going straight for her ears.
She whines, bumps her nose into my palm, and licks me wherever she can reach.
“She’s been waiting for you. Thought she was going to have at least three heart attacks this morning.”
I look up as Braxton speaks and all that confidence, my newfound excitement at seeing him, spikes to immeasurable levels.
He’s standing at the edge of the hallway, shoulder braced against the wall. His arms are bare. In fact, everything above his waist is bare. His ink is everywhere.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him like this, it takes all my will to resist jumping to my feet and tackling him so I can taste him all over.
This is not pregnant hormones kicking into high gear, creating a throb at the apex of my thighs.
This is simple, boy meets girl, girl wants to taste hot boy, physical chemistry.