Page 115 of If Not for My Baby
“Clementine.”
I try to pull the offending luggage through the gravel but the wheels are facing the wrong way, and the little pebbles are piling up—
“I’ve got some friends over, Clem. The mate who’s had a baby, and his wife.”
It takes me a minute to hear him over the ringing in my ears. When I’ve processed his words, I sag against my suitcase. “So you aren’t…”
I never thought I’d be so gone for a man that the thought of him with someone else could have this effect on me. He watches me fish for the words with quiet interest, before saving me from my faltering. “Of course not.”
He steps off the porch to come meet me and puts my suitcase right side up. With that, his hands—those magnificent hands I’ve come to worship—wrap around my shoulders and draw me into him. I inhale warmth. Damp wood after rain. Clean skin and the tickle of the spices he’s been cooking with. My fingers grasp at his worn T-shirt. I’ve missed him so much I choke on my next breath.
“I’ve got a bag of my own packed,” he says into my hair. “For a flight to Texas that leaves in three days.”
I yank my head back so fast I give myself whiplash. “You do?”
His eyes are a little wet as he nods, and smooths a hair from my face. He looks at me like he’s trying to study every inch. The space between my eyelashes. The dip above my lips. “I’ve been counting down the hours.”
He lifts my chin up and allows his mouth to hover over mine. My lips tingle with his breath, a new feeling thrumming in the slight space between us. Our lips touch a moment later and it’s like the first time. Only now I know the depth of my love for him, and it’s unlike any kiss I’ve ever had.
I sigh into him, pressing up on my toes until I’m practically climbing up his body. Tom doesn’t seem to mind—his hands are twined so deep in my hair he’s almost pulling me up to meet him by my head. And even better than the heat of his tongue against mine, or the hunger of his hands, or the sounds of need breaking from him, is the smile I can feel in his lips as he kisses me. The relief.
“Tommy,” a man’s voice calls from inside. “The kitchen’s startin’ to smoke!”
When he releases me, ragged breaths are sawing out of him. His hands stay tethered to my neck and hip as if I’m all that’s keeping him rooted here. For too long we just stare at each other, catching our breaths.
Inside his house I can still hear casual voices and the clanging of pots, faint blues drifting from a vinyl I know Tom put on. And beyond the estate, wind in the spruce branches and crows chatting overhead.
“Tommy!”
“Comin’,” he calls, though his eyes don’t yet leave mine.
“You should go.” I can hardly think, let alone speak properly. “Your kitchen needs you.”
His lips twitch. “I’d gladly watch my kitchen tumble into the core of the earth for another moment with you.”
“I’m never going to get over you saying things like that.”
When he laughs, the clouds above might as well split into pure sunshine.
“Jaysus, Tommy!” the man calls a third time.
Tom takes my hand. “Do you want to come inside?”
—
Before I’m through the foyer, a soft, scrubby dog is at my ankles, sniffing every inch of me. “You must be Conry.”
They say dogs are like their owners, but if that’s true, Conry and Willow should trade places. Where Willow has Tom’s long, unkempt curls—albeit hers are white—Conry has my doe eyes. And he’s using them for evil the way he silently pleads with me every time I try to ease up on the belly rubs. Somewhere deeper in the home, a man is laughing huskily at my plight.
“Now you’ve done it,” Tom says above me. “He’ll never let you be, the ham.”
Conry in tow, I follow the scent of roasting herbs into the living room, which bleeds seamlessly into the kitchen. Tom’s home is earthy and masculine, clean and warm and well lit. Textured white walls, farmhouse detailing. The kitchen’sfilled with blond wood and credenzas stuffed with greenery and old vinyls.
It’s all deceptively simple, but everything from the antique diamond windowpanes to the brick fireplace that crackles with life tells a story—the history of the home, nestled in between graveyards and gloomy peatland. The evenings Tom has spent on that faded, rust-colored couch in solitude, writing some transcendent ode that makes heartache tangible.
“Clem,” Tom says, putting his hand on the small of my back. “This is Francis and Mia, and their baby, Liam.”
Mia’s got nearly a foot of height on me, with a willowy ponytail and a fair, light-eyed complexion. She’s wearing a pretty patterned dress while both Francis and Tom are in sweats and I get the feeling this is the first time she’s done something social since having Liam. She cradles the doughy-cheeked little dumpling against her chest and I notice he’s curled one teensy hand as best he can around her upper arm.
