All I know right now is I’m exhausted.
After using the bathroom, I climb back into bed and sink back into sleep immediately.
***
I’m woken in the pitch dark by a feather-light kiss on my cheekbone.
“Baby. Are you hungry? It’s ten. You didn’t eat anything today.”
“Sleepy,” I say and turn away from him.
God, my boobs hurt. I hug a pillow to my chest and close my eyes.
***
I open my eyes in the dark and Killian has me. He’s got both arms around me and he’s breathing evenly, asleep.
I’m hyperaware of him, his arms around me, the sound of his breathing, the way he smells.
I swallow down a lump of pain at the idea of trying to do this without this comforting scent wrapped around me. The idea of not having him hurts so much. But is being with him good for me? Is raising a child with him good for that child?
The instant that thought crosses my mind, I incinerate it. Killian would be an incredible father. Protective. Nurturing. And undoubtedly willing to step in front of a freight train to protect his child. This is a man who at seventeen raised his brother after his mom died. Not a lot of teenagers would do that. An orphan, he built a business from the ground up into an empire after growing up with nothing.
What a difference between him and Ray.
He’s going to be a great dad; I know it down to my soul. But can I forgive him for his lies? Can I trust him again? Can I live with it even if we do come to an agreement about what to do about the problem in his basement?
I need to pee. And I’m starving.
It takes some effort moving his heavy arms off me before I get out of bed and find my way to the bathroom.
After a pee that takes half an hour (or so it feels like) I head to the kitchen, stomach growling fiercely.
I’m eating deli meat and cheese like a starving, wild animal while scrambling eggs because it’s fast.
And then I’m practically inhaling my scrambled eggs with cheese like they’re the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.
But then it hits me that I read something about avoiding deli meat on a list of things not to eat during pregnancy and I’m feeling panicked.
I clean up quickly and vow to avoid the deli meat going forward. As I’m getting ready to go back to bed, I notice it’s snowing.
Grabbing a soft throw blanket from the couch, I make my way to the floor-to-ceiling windows by the balcony and stare out as snowflakes tumble down like sparkles. These are defined, fat flakes that melt when they land. But before they blot into water drops that’ll quickly freeze, they’ve got that distinctiveness to them that I’ve always thought of as Christmas snow.
It’s almost Christmas.
And my life is a mess.
My ex is imprisoned in my husband’s beach house basement in a cell I’m pretty sure he had built just for him. And I’m pregnant, unemployed, and heartbroken.
“Hey?” Killian calls out.
I look over my shoulder.
The source of my joy for the past few months and my pain for the last week and a bit is erasing the space between us, looking concerned. He’s shirtless, in a pair of black boxer briefs. Face scruffy. Dark hair messy. The apartment is dark other than the light over the stove, but he moves through the shadows like there’s an ethereal glow around him.
And then he’s spinning one of the club chairs around to face the window before he lifts me up into his arms and sits down in the chair with me on top of him.
I give him a grumpy expression, but don’t go to move away. He’s warm and toasty. And his eyes are filled with warmth. He looks at me like he loves me, like he can’t believe his luck that he’s got me in his arms. And it makes me want to choke up.
Before I can turn away, he’s kissing my mouth softly. He jerks his chin in the direction of the window. “Fascinated with the white stuff?”
I shrug, finding myself more fascinated with the lines and curves of his biceps.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asks.
“I was hungry,” I say, turning my gaze back to the window.
“You find the food I made?”
“What did you make?”
“Butter chicken, zucchini, mushrooms, and peppers over basmati.”
My lower lip protrudes. “Oh. I ate scrambled eggs and a fist full of salami and Havarti. And then I remembered I shouldn’t eat deli meat while pregnant. Butter chicken sounds good.”
“You want me to warm it up?”
I shake my head. “I’m full.”
“Why can’t you eat deli meat?” he asks.
I shrug. “Listeria, I think. The risk is small but it’s still a risk.”
“There’s probably enough butter chicken left for dinner tomorrow.” He kisses me again.