Page 17 of The Rebound
I follow the smell of sauteed shrimp until I’m hovering over Kinley as she works at the stove.
Maybe I should have dressed up more. She’s wearing a black cotton dress that hugs her hips and cuts off at her knees. Over the dress is a light gray T-shirt knotted just above her belly bump, supporting her round breasts. Her hair falls in lazy waves down her shoulders, brushing against her bare arms. On her feet are those plush slippers I bought her at the supermarket. It’s a casual outfit, but the way she wears it makes her look like a damn celebrity.
When Kinley looks up at me with a soft smile, it takes everything in me not to plant a kiss on her inviting lips. This woman exudes wife energy, and the fact that the little guy growing in her belly technically belongs to another man doesn’t even faze me.
Okay, record scratch.
What’s happening to me? Acknowledging my attraction to a woman is one thing, but playing house in my head? Clearly, I’m losing it.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in so long, my pent-up sperm count is fucking with my brain. Is that even a thing? Probably not. But I have no other explanation for my growing fascination with this woman.
Kinley yelps when grease splatters from the pan and lands on her arm, snapping me out of my weird thoughts.
“You okay?” I ask, reaching for a towel and wetting it under a cold stream of water in the sink.
Even as she insists she’s fine, I gently take her arm and place the wet towel over the spot. It’s a reflex, like my body is moving to protect hers without a single thought crossing my mind. It would weird me out if it didn’t feel so natural.
“Thank you,” Kinley says with a grateful smile. “Food is just about ready. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of wine?”
That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Do I break my brief stint with sobriety tonight?
As I pause, thinking it over, Kinley notices. “Do you not drink? That’s totally okay if—”
“I do, I do. I just haven’t for a few weeks. More for work reasons than anything else. One too many drinks, and I struggle to be on my best behavior.”
When I don’t elaborate, Kinley doesn’t push. She just quirks an eyebrow at me and offers a sultry smile.
“An angel like you? I can’t even imagine.”
I shrug innocently. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Well, it’s probably for the best that you don’t drink,” Kinley says. “I’d just get jealous and spend all night groaning about how much pregnancy sucks.”
All night.Is that an invitation to stay past dinner? “More than you usually do?”
She bumps me with her hip—a challenge. “Shut up. I haven’t even told you the worst of it.”
“Yeah? I’m all ears.”
She taps her chin, a gesture I’ve learned she does when she’s pretending to think very hard. “We’ll see if you can handle it.”
A few minutes later, we’re cozied up on the couch together, enjoying the shrimp primavera Kinley whipped up from scratch. It’s light, not as hearty as the pasta dishes I’m used to when I’m trying to bulk up, but it’s hitting the spot.
Kinley’s excited about the new TV, so we put on an oldie but a goodie,Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.While a young Matthew Broderick spouts off one of his monologues, I turn to Kinley with a question.
“Now, tell me. What’s the worst part about being pregnant?”
She finishes off her last bite with a giggle and sets our plates aside.
“Um, well,” she mumbles before pulling a blanket over her knees, her toes peeking out to brush against my leg. “It’s embarrassing. I don’t want to say it.”
“Okay, fine. You don’t have to say it. I’ll just guess until I get it right. Is it ... your feet hurting?”
I touch her toes, dragging my fingers up her foot to rest my hand on her ankle. Between giggles, Kinley pantomimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key.
“Come on. At least nod or shake your head.”
She sighs, and a reluctant smile curls at the corners of her mouth. “Fine.”
