Page 51 of Embers in Our Past

“I made the mistake of wearing a white shirt, and I don’t want to get it dirty.” I move into her living room and drape the shirt over her couch so it doesn’t get wrinkled.

“It’s a plain white tee. I know you have a ton of those,” she says, crossing her arms, feigning annoyance.

I take my strides mindfully toward Abby, moving slowly so that with each step forward, she’s walking backward until she’s leaning against her dryer.

I know my muscles are a huge turn-on for her. It doesn’t hurt that since she’s left, I’ve had a lot of extra time and pent-up aggression to tone up a bit. Soon, I’m pinning her against the machine, my arms caging her in, my breath inches from her skin.

“Abby, it’s been too long for you to know what’s in my closet. You can’t say for certain what I do and don’t have, sweetheart. Like I said, I don’t want to get this one dirty. Also, regarding you being my girl.” I lick my lips, and I swear I hear her swallow. “You will always be mine. Don’t forget whose baby you’re carrying, sweetheart.”

I see goosebumps break out along her skin, and I know she’s turned on. If there’s one thing I remember Ashton telling me from Samara’s pregnancy, it was how hot and bothered she was once she got to her second trimester. If my calculations are correct, Abby is hitting that point right about now, and she’s probably feeling pretty turned on at the moment.

I quickly push off the machine and start going through my toolbox to find what I need to get her washer up and running again. It takes Abby a moment to compose herself. Before long, the machine starts working, and I swear, I think I catch happy tears pooling in Abby’s eyes.

“Do you want me to make you a sandwich before you go?” she offers. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thank you,” I say as I make my way through the kitchen and wash up.

“You can put your shirt back on, you know.” And just for that comment, I’ll be keeping it off a little longer.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” I wink at her and go to grab my shirt from the couch. “On second thought, I think I’ll keep it off because I don’t want to get any of my meal on my shirt either. I hate mustard stains.” I make a face.

“You hate mustard,” she tosses back.

“But what if today I want to try it and love it?”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I don’t think you mean that,” I say, following her into the kitchen.

I saddle up next to her and help where I can. I start to stack her sandwich the way she usually would eat hers, and she grabs my hand. “Please don’t put pickles on it.”

“But you love pickles,” I protest.

“Not this week, I don’t.” She nearly gags.

“Oh shoot, the baby is revolting against your favorite snack?” I make a face, and she looks like she might cry again.

“I know, right? I was so bummed when I realized it. I almost called you, but you were on shift, so I didn’t want to bother you.” She chuckles.

I grab her hand and interlace my fingers with hers. “Abby, you can call me anytime. Day or night, even if I’m on shift. I want to do this with you.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it softly. I see her melt into me slightly, then pull her hand away.

“We should sit down.” She hands me my plate, and we walk over to the table. We start to eat in silence until I decide to put my foot in my mouth.

“Have you given any more thought to me moving in?” The moment I say it, I see her stiffen up.

“No, because I didn’t realize it was still up for discussion, Clay,” she says.

“Abby, this is ridiculous,” I begin, putting my sandwich down. “We should be living together so I can be here to help. I mean, today is a perfect example. I could have been here already. I can be here and help prepare for the baby and get the nursery ready. All the things that need to get done, I’d be here.”

“Where would you sleep?” she asks.

“There’s the baby’s room for the time being, and it’s not like I can’t sleep in the same room as you when the nursery is ready.”

She cuts me a look, and I stare at her.

“You can’t be serious? You think we can’t be in the same room together?” I ask her.

She points down to the barely there belly she’s sporting. “I think exhibit A proves my point. No, I do not. It would get messy. You know it would,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

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