Page 22 of The Surrogate Mother
I flash him a thin smile. “Wonderful.”
Okay, here goes nothing.
I say a quick prayer and stuff the piece of chicken in my mouth. The taste of red wine and burnt flour mixed with chicken assaults my taste buds. Sam is still watching me, an expectant look on his face. I want to swallow the damn thing down, but it’s so chewy, I can’t. I’ll be chewing this chicken for the rest of the night.
“Delicious,” I say around bites of chicken.
He frowns at me. “Then why are you making that face?”
“I’m not making a face.”
Sam regards me for a moment. Finally, he slices off a piece of chicken and pops it in his mouth. He has it in there for about two seconds before he starts coughing and spits it out into a napkin.
“Oh, Christ!” he says. “That’sawful! Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “I was just happy it wasn’t raw again.”
He smiles crookedly. “Thank you for pretending to like it.”
“Thank you for not making me eat it.”
He leans in to kiss me. “Thank you for being understanding that I’m still learning.”
“And thank you in advance for cleaning up the kitchen.”
He laughs and kisses me again. He probably meant it to just be another peck on the lips, but it turns into something more intense than that. He puts his hand on my back and pulls me closer to him until I start to get all tingly. He really is quite a good kisser. Back when we were dating, it used to make my knees weak every time he kissed me. I know that’s cliché, but it really did.
Now we’ve been married a while so I don’t get weak in the knees on a daily basis, but I still think our kisses are far sexier than average. They’re still better than any kiss I’d had before Sam came along.
“I’m not that hungry anyway,” he breathes in my ear.
“Me either.”
And then he’s pulling me to my feet, and at first, we’re stumbling in the direction of the bedroom, but as it turns out, we only make it as far as the couch.
That’s one nice thing about not having kids. Sex on the couch.
It’s only when it’s over and we’re lying half-naked together (okay, mostly naked), entwined on the sofa, my mind wanders to Monica’s offer. I have interviewed everyone on my list and found absolutely nothing concerning about Monica Johnson. There’s absolutely no reason not to power through with this.
Sam toys with a lock of my black hair while I snuggle into his bare chest. Sam got a membership at his university gym a few years ago because “it lowers the health insurance premiums,” but he actually started using it. He goes to the gym nearly every day to run, and I think he hits the weights twice a week. I’m proud of his determination to take better care of himself, but also, I love what lifting those weights has done for the muscles in his upper body.
“How do you get your hair so soft?” he asks me.
“Is it soft?”
“Yes. It’s freakishly soft, actually.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I didn’t say I liked it. I was just commenting on its physical properties.”
I smack him in the arm. He laughs and hugs me closer to him. Maybe my ovaries betrayed me, but I’ve been lucky in love, at least. There’s no better guy out there.
“I love you, Abby,” he murmurs into my hair.
I grin up at him. “I love you too.”
“I was just thinking…” He toys with my hair again, his brown eyes on mine. “I think we should ask for a toddler.”
