“I can change the dates with Barrow.” I look up to meet his eyes. “Can we chock it all up to the hormones?”
“Sure, but what’s your excuse the other three weeks of the month?” The twinkle in his eye saves him from a junk punch.
“You’re pushing it, Grip.”
“Oh, I can push it, all right.” His playful hip thrust has me giggling like a schoolgirl and shoving him toward the door.
“Go watch your game. I’m gonna take a nice hot bath and then drown my hormones in ice cream.”
I head to the bathroom, already peeling off my tank top when his voice stops me.
“We don’t have to go through this every month, Bris.”
He’s got one hand on his hip, an arm stretched up as he grabs hold of the doorjamb overhead. His T-shirt lifts to peekaboo soft-as-velvet skin stretched over a slab of granite abs. The humor has faded from his voice, from his eyes. All that’s left is lingering concern and unconditional love.
“I’m telling you there’s no pressure,” Grip says. “I’m gonna be ecstatic and obnoxious when you get pregnant, you already know that, but until then I’m ridiculously happy with just you.”
My words are stolen again by his consideration. I’m the luckiest woman on the planet. Minutes later, Grip’s in the living room cursing and yelling at the television while I sink into almost unbearably hot water and mile-high suds to soothe my cramping stomach muscles, wearing nothing but a grin because I’m ridiculously happy with just him, too.
Chapter 31
Grip
“I THINK I’ll run to the drugstore.”
Bristol’s standing at the door of our office. Technically, it’s Bristol’s office in her cottage. My place a few miles away is occupied by a couple of the Kilimanjaro guys, and our place in New York isn’t actually ours. It’s Mrs. O’Malley’s, but we’re still leasing it. Lately I keep thinking about getting a bigger house here, a place that’s ours, hers and mine, a place big enough for us and our kids. Dammit. As much as I keep telling myself not to think about our kids, I do. I meant it when I told Bristol there was no pressure. There absolutely isn’t, but man do I want to meet these kids we’ll have one day.
I check the time on the piece-of-shit watch I can’t bring myself to get rid of. When I took it to the watch repair shop, they looked at me like the screws in the watch might not be the only ones loose. Bristol won it at a carnival over a decade ago, for God’s sake. We never even paid for it, but I paid the shop to make it work again.
“It’s late, babe,” I mumble around a yawn. “Lemme go for you.”
“No, you have that assignment to finish.” Bristol comes into the office and sits on the edge of the desk. “It was due two days ago, right?”
“Don’t remind me.” I scowl at my laptop and the assignment on criminal justice reform legislation. “The professor gave me an extension, but I’m on the verge of missing this deadline, too, if I don’t buckle down.”
“It’s been a lot the last few months.” She steps behind me and sinks her fingers into the muscles along my neck, the shoulders locked with tension. “School, working on your next album, all the stuff for Qwest’s single.”
“I had no idea that song would do what it’s doing.” I cover her hand with mine, running my finger along her tattoo and wedding ring. “You never know what people will respond to.”
“They always seem to respond to the two of you together,” Bristol says easily.
I poke around in the air, searching for agitation in Bristol’s statement. She’s possessive on the best of days, but with Qwest, it’s on another level. I’m pleased to report clear skies, from what I can tell.
“Well the video’s in the can, the single’s out, and the first round of performances is behind me,” I say. “Now I can focus on . . . everything else.”
Like the book of poetry I haven’t even started. I won’t mention that, because if Bristol says the words “brand expansion” again, I’m going through my eye with a selfie stick.
“You have knots in your neck,” Bristol whispers, slipping her tongue inside my ear. She knows what that does to me. She must be prepared to face the consequences. I reach around and snatch her off her feet and onto my lap.
“No!” She squeals and laughs, but doesn’t budge. “I told you I have to go to the drugstore.”
“And I told you,” I say, trailing kisses over her collarbone, “that I’ll go. I don’t want you out this late.”
“It’s only ten o’clock.”
I shrug and keep kissing the hollow at the base of her throat.
“I thought guys hated buying things like tampons,” she says, pausing significantly. “And pregnancy tests.”