Page 37 of The Little Black Rose

“Chett and Rhett Beckett-Brown sounds much better,” she says in a teasing tone.

We haven’t discussed what these babies last names will be, and I realize I don’t really care. If Ava prefers Beckett-Brown, I’m fine with that. As long as I’m in their lives, it doesn’t matter whose last name comes first.

“I guess we’ll just have to keep calling them Strudel and Cannoli, for now,” I say with a fake sigh.

“I guess so,” she says, grinning as she picks up her corn cob and bites into it.

That shouldn’t be sexy. I know it shouldn’t. But as she pulls the cob away and dabs at the juice running down her chin with her napkin, my dick twitches. I need to get this shit under control. I can admit my desire to myself, but I can’t act on it. We’re too close now, and this situation is complicated enough without adding sex to the mix.

No matter how badly I want her.

After dinner, I send her into the living room to relax while I load the dishwasher and clean up my mess. When I finish, I grab two bottles of water from the fridge. I walk in and plop down on the opposite end of the couch from Ava and hand her one of the bottles.

“Thanks,” she says, twisting off the top and taking a drink before pointing at the television with the bottle. “This okay?”

One of those true crime documentary shows is on, and I nod. I’ve seen this one, but I won’t spoil it for her if this is what she really wants to watch. This is one of my favorite shows, and I’m glad Ava and I have similar tastes in television. It’s one of the many things I’ve discovered we have in common over the last couple of weeks.

Ava gasps, and I jerk my head toward her, as she says, “Oh,” and places her hands on her baby bump.

“What? What is it? Are you okay?”

The words fire out of me in rapid succession. Fear floods my system, my body flashing cold as all manner of horrible possibilities stream through my mind.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, meeting my eyes. “I think I just felt…something.”

My eyes flare wide, and my heart pumps life back into my limbs as excitement fills me. “What did it feel like?”

“It’s hard to explain,” she says slowly, her gaze drifting back down to her belly. “It was like a fluttering sensation. Like bubbles popping.”

She stays quiet for several long moments, then sighs. Shaking her head, she looks back at me.

“Maybe I imagined it. It’s too soon to be feeling movement.

“You’re seventeen weeks,” I say. “Expectant mothers usually start to feel movement between eighteen to twenty weeks, so you’re close enough, I think.”

Her eyebrows scrunch down as she cocks her head. “How do you know that?”

I shrug. “I’ve been doing some reading.”

She watches me for several beats, her expression intent like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out. I’ve proven to her that I’m all-in on being here for this pregnancy, and I’ve admitted to researching pregnancy before, so I don’t know why it’s so surprising.

Suddenly, her eyes go wide and she gasps again. Leaning over, she wraps her fingers around my wrist and jerks my hand over, pressing it to her belly.

“There,” she says excitedly. “Do you feel that?”

I close my eyes and focus on my palm, willing the movement to vibrate against my skin. But in the end, I feel nothing. Opening my eyes, I give her a sad look and shake my head.

“I don’t feel anything.”

That’s not exactly true. Touching her has me feeling all kinds of things, but I know that’s not what she meant, so I keep that little tidbit to myself. I spread my fingers, feeling the small but firm bump beneath my skin. My children are in there.

Scooting closer, I lean down slowly, lifting my gaze to Ava’s. “May I?”

She nods, and I see her throat working as she swallows thickly. I press my cheek to the bump, then turn my head, pressing a light kiss to the spot.

“Hey there, my little pastry puffs. Daddy loves you,” I whisper, and Ava’s stomach jumps as she inhales sharply.

I straighten, feeling sheepish, but when I look at Ava, she wears a tremulous smile and her eyes are glassy. She’s obviously emotional, and I find myself reaching out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her head tilts, leaning into my hand, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

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