Tempted (Pregnancy & Passion 3)

Ashley could certainly draw on the resources around her. She’d never particularly had a desire to be more like her family. She hadn’t really considered that she was so different. She hadn’t thought much about how she compared. Why would she? But they could help her. She just had to make sure she employed their help in a way that didn’t give away the true reason for her transformation.

The door to Devon’s office opened and he stepped out, looked her way and then started toward her.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”

She shook her head and pulled the blanket closer to her chin. “I’m fine. Just getting comfortable.”

He took a seat in the armchair across from the couch. Their gazes connected but she didn’t look away, as tempted as she was. She couldn’t keep avoiding him, no matter how desirable the prospect was.

It was hard for her because humiliation crept up her spine every time she had to face him, but eventually that would go away or she’d harden enough that it would no longer affect her. Or at least she hoped so.

“I spoke to your parents. Your mother is naturally concerned for you. She’d like you to call her when you’re feeling up to it. Your father wants to see me in the morning, so if you’re okay by then, I’ll be out for a few hours.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said softly. “Headache’s gone. No reason for you to stay home and babysit me.”

“If you need anything at all or if you begin to feel bad again, call me. I’ll come home.”

Hell would freeze over before she’d ever call him at work again, not that she’d tell him that. She nodded instead and sighed unhappily. So this is what her marriage boiled down to. A stilted, awkward conversation between two people who were clearly uncomfortable in each other’s presence.

“Do you think you could eat something now?” Devon asked, breaking the strained silence. “What would you like?”

Deciding to take the olive branch, or perhaps create an olive branch out of a dinner offer, she shifted and pushed herself up so that her back was against the arm of the couch.

“You could cook, if you don’t mind. I could sit at the bar and watch.”

He looked surprised by her suggestion, but his surprise was quickly replaced by relief. He looked almost hopeful.

“That would be nice. Are you sure you’re up for the noise and the light?”

Again she nodded. She hadn’t talked this little since she’d been a nonverbal toddler. Her parents always swore that because she was late to talk she’d spent the rest of her life making up for lost time.

He stood and held down his hand to her. “Come on then. Bring the blanket with you if you’re cold. You can sit on one of the bar stools and wrap it around you.”

Hesitating only a brief moment, she slid her hand over his, enjoying the warmth of his touch. He curled his fingers around her wrist and helped her from the couch.

She stood up beside him but he waited a moment for her to get her footing.

“Okay?” he asked. “Fuzziness gone yet? I don’t want you falling.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t relinquish her hand as he started toward the kitchen. He guided her toward one of the stools and settled her down. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and tucked the ends underneath her arms.

“What’s your pleasure tonight?”

He walked around to open the refrigerator, surveyed the contents and then glanced back at her.

It was probably another sign of her shortcomings that she had no idea what was or wasn’t in the fridge. Heat singed her cheeks and she dropped her gaze. Tomorrow she’d take inventory. After she cleaned the house.

“A

sh?”

She yanked her gaze back up. “Uh, I don’t care. Honestly. I’ll eat whatever.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been dying to cook this cow’s tongue before it goes bad.”

She blinked for a moment before she realized he was teasing her. The memory of the night he’d first made love to her came back in a flash. The dinner they’d had when he’d asked her if she was a vegetarian.

Unbidden, a smile curved her lips. He smiled back at her, relief lightening his eyes.

“No?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No cow’s tongue. But I’d eat his flank. Or his tuchus even.”

“So you’ll eat cow’s ass but not his tongue,” Devon said in mock exasperation.

Her smile grew a bit bigger and she leaned forward on the counter, resting her chin in her palm. This pretending felt nice. Who said denial was a bad thing?

If she could effectively put out of her mind the whole debacle that had been her honeymoon and take some time to work on her shortcomings, maybe at some point the pretense could become real. He could love her. He was committed to their marriage. It was a step. He was attentive, caring and he obviously hated to see her hurting. Those weren’t the characteristics of a man who loathed her. So if he didn’t hate her, and he seemed to like her well enough even if she annoyed him, then eventually, possibly, he could love her.

It was a hope she clung to because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. He didn’t want a divorce, but she couldn’t remain married to a man who could never love her. If she lost hope that he’d never reciprocate her feelings, it would signal the end of their marriage whether he wished it or not.

Devon tossed a package onto the counter and then returned to the fridge, where he pulled out an onion, what looked like bell peppers in assorted colors and a box of mushrooms.

“How about I do stir-fry? It’s quick and easy and pretty damn good if I do say so myself.”

“Sounds yummy.”

She watched him in silence and soon the sizzle of searing meat filled the room. While the meat cooked, he sliced the vegetables. He stopped to give the meat a brisk stirring and then returned to the cutting board.

She decided he looked good in the kitchen. Sleeves rolled up, top button undone, his brow creased in concentration. He was efficient, but then he seemed efficient at everything he did. She wondered if there was anything he wasn’t accomplished at. Was he one of those people who could pick up anything and do it well?

“Name one thing you suck at,” she blurted out.

Then she promptly groaned inwardly because this was precisely what she wasn’t supposed to be doing. She had to demonstrate more…control. More decorum. Or at least stop blurting out her first reaction to everything.

He glanced up, his brows drawn together as if he wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. “Say that again?”

She shook her head. No way. “It was stupid. Just forget it.”

He put down the knife, glanced over at the skillet and then returned his gaze to her. “Why would you want to know something I suck at?”

She closed her eyes and wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. So much for her campaign to become less…everything on his complaint list about her.

“Ash? Come on. Don’t leave me hanging here.”

She sighed. “Look, it was a stupid question. It’s just that you seem like one of these people who is good at everything. You know, a person who can pick up something and just do it and do it well. I just wanted to know one thing you suck at. Gives hope to us mere mortals.”

He shrugged. “I suck at lots of things. I’m definitely not one of those people who is good at everything. I’ve had to work hard for everything I’ve earned.”

This was going from bad to worse. “It didn’t come out right, Dev, okay? Can we just forget it? I wasn’t insinuating that you haven’t worked hard. I think it’s evident that you’ve worked for everything you have. That wasn’t what I meant at all. Sorry.”

She pushed her hand into her hair and focused her stare down at the countertop. Running out of the room seemed overly dramatic even if it was what she wanted more than anything.

“Then what did you mean?”

There wasn’t any anger or irritation in his voice. Just simple, casual curiosity. She chanced a peek back up at him to gauge his expression.

“Well, like cooking. You seem good at that. I just wanted to know something you aren’t good at. You seemed to me to be one of those people who have a natural ability to pick up on things. You know, like sports. You ever see kids who just pick up a ball and know how to play? I bet you were one of those.”

He groaned. “Oh, man. Clearly you’ve never watched me try to play basketball. And I say try, but that’s probably not even an accurate word to use. Rafael, Ryan and Cam like to torture me at least once a year when they drag me down to play a ‘friendly’ game of basketball. What it really is is an opportunity for them to pay me back for every imagined slight. And then they don’t let me forget it for the next six months.”

“So you aren’t good at basketball? Is that what you’re saying?”