Getting Her Back

“I know,” he says. “Though I’m thinking of some very creative ways to make it up to you.”

“In the bedroom?”

“Or kitchen, living room, the shower, wherever.”

My body prickles with heat and I fight down another blush. “Well try to wait until after the party.”

“I’ll try,” he says in my ear.

My mother is still glaring at the two of us and I bring Christian with me over to her. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

She shrugs, making a face, like she’s brushing it off. But I can tell she’s still pissed. This isn’t a conversation that’s over. “I’ll still get a grandbaby, so it doesn’t matter.”

She disappears into the crowd, and Christian sighs. “How big is the basket of fruit I have to send her to make her like me?”

“Oh, that size doesn’t exist,” I say. “Besides, she and I have to have a conversation about her behavior. Both now and back when she blocked you from seeing me. She’s not exactly blameless here.”

“Fair.”

I take a sip of champagne. “I suppose that means that I should cancel my appointment with Dr. Lang next week.”

“Yes,” he says, turning me in his arms. “I’m in this for the long haul, and I’ll be damned if you have another man’s baby.” Kissing me, I almost drop the champagne because I forget where I am.

“We should probably get started on that,” I say.

That smirk is back, and even though we still have a lot of talking to do, there’s nothing I want more than to spend the night in his arms. “Want to get out of here?” he asks.

“Hell yes.”

19

Nine Months Later

I’m a bus. That’s what it feels like as I enter the apartment and set down the grocery bag. Being six months pregnant is no picnic. Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving every second of it, but it’s still hard when it feels like your center of gravity is completely different.

I sink down onto the couch and start flipping through the mail. I will always love this couch. It has a lot of memories, including when I sat here naked and unsure and then had what might still be the best sex of my life. Christian moved in here a few months ago after we eloped to Vegas. There’s a card from my mom, and I open it. It’s an invitation to the shower she’s throwing me in a few weeks, with a little note that says how excited she is.

There’s a sound behind me, and suddenly Christian is kissing my neck, hands coming down to cradle my belly as he leans over the couch. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I got the shower invitation.”

He chuckles. “That’s good. Does that mean she’s forgiven me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I’m never going to forget the look on her face when we came back from Vegas.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see my face. “She loves you. Or rather she loves that we’re in love and that you make me happy. You, I’m less sure about.”

“Well, maybe she’ll come around once Clara gets here.”

“Maybe,” I say, kicking off my shoes.

He comes around and sits next to me, taking the rest of the mail and flipping through it quickly before tossing it on the coffee table. “Feet hurt?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Comes with the whole ‘being a whale’ thing.”

Christian raises an eyebrow. “You are not a whale. You are my beautiful wife, who deserves a foot rub.” He leans in to kiss me. “Do you have time for that before you disappear into your studio for the night?”

Another benefit of marrying a CEO besides the serious upgrade in apartments is that he completely supports your dreams. I’ve been studying privately with Mr. Prince ever since the workshop, and next month is my first solo art show in the gallery space downtown. I have so much work to do in the studio that used to be the library. But a foot rub sounds so good that I could cry. “Yeah, I have time for that.”

“Excellent.” Christian stands and scoops me off the couch. I squeak, always nervous when he does this, but he’s never had a problem. He carries me like I weigh nothing, and when I’m this big, it makes me feel good to be carried, cradled.

Sitting me down on the bed, Christian peels off my socks, and I glance over at the wall. Our portraits of each other, naked, hang she by side. It’s fitting, considering how they came to be, that they hang in our bedroom.

I’m pulled back to him by the fact that he’s slipping my leggings down my legs. “Those are not my socks.”

Christian grins. “They’re leg socks, and I promised you a foot rub. I didn’t promise you just a foot rub.”

“I’m not sure—” He stands, gripping the hem of my shirt and tugging it off over my head. I try to cover myself with my arms, which is just impossible. “I look like an alien.”