“James, is everything okay?” Kate leans on the counter, studying him.
He clears his throat. Although she’s tentative, there’s a hint of cautious optimism that looks so good on her he’s unable, possibly unwilling, to dampen it. “Small setback, but nothing to worry about.”
While he feels a little hypocritical about the lie, “Sparing the feelings of another” was number seven of acceptable reasons to lie in the Respectful and Considerate Conduct Course manual he devoured.
“Give me a minute to send a message. I’ll join you in a moment.” He slides a wineglass to her, and as she walks away with it, he watches her hips sway throughthe gauzy fabric of the nightgown she slipped into. If only he’d come to his current conclusion months ago—but he doesn’t have time for regrets. Plan B could fail, and he could die a second time. The last hour has given him emotional whiplash. It takes all his focus to stay grounded in the present moment.
He will not fail himself or her. Still, tonight, he will make love to her, absorb every shiver, every breath, every touch—everything that makes Kate special—because there is a very real possibility it could be their last time.
39 – The Measure of a (Wo)man
K8
December 24, 2390, Day 3.
K8 wakes with James’s body wrapped around hers, his face nestling into the curve of her neck. He stirs, and she can feel him grow hard against her thigh. “Good morning,” he says.
Two armies of butterflies battle in her stomach. The first set, a fiery red army with luxurious fluttering wings, eagerly wants to feel him once more. The second army of butterflies are much more ominous, made up of frozen accounts, scoundrels named Viper, and anything and everything that could go wrong. She imagines they’re black and dangerous. They fly around, taking aim with their dagger-sharp wings, trying to eliminate thered army.
Best to ignore them. As soon as she gets up, she’ll check her account. The Blackmarks from the PalmPrint sale should get washed, then transferred today. And maybe a few returns will show up early. Then she could pay the lease and never have to worry again. At least for another month.
But when James says, with a roll of his hips, “I can hear you thinking. Focus on me, sweetheart,” the black army disappears in an explosion of color. He makes love to her slow and sweet. It is in that moment she realizes she could do this a thousand more mornings. More, and never get tired of it. It isn’t just the sex, though James is an excellent lover. It’s him. He approaches making love to her like everything else he does. With his sole focus and determination. It makes her feel like the treasure he says she is.
Afterward, James exits the bathroom, hair wet and slicked back from the shower. His clothes are still in the spare bedroom, so he wears only a towel as he approaches her. He leans over the bed where she is resting after their morning activities.
“What time is it?” she asks on a yawn. For her to be this tired, it must be early.
“It’s 05:30,” he says, and kisses her sweetly. “Go back to sleep.”
“What are you doing?”
“In my past life I used to be an early riser,” he says. The way his stare keeps retracing her sheet-clad form like he’s unable to peel his eyes away makes warmth flood through her. She stretches, luxuriating in his gaze, before turning and nestling into her pillow.
She feels the heat of him as he leans over, brushing his lips below her ear. “You are perfect, exactly as you are.”
“Mmm,” she sighs, savoring the perks of her new relationship as she hears the door click shut behind him.
The doorbell chimes, and she wakes with a start. She glances at the clock, noting the time: 07:50.
She draws in a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She must have been having a bad dream. The doorbell chimes again. “James!” she calls as she jumps out of bed to throw on a robe. He must have run out.
The dark army of butterflies revisits her when she opens the door to a frazzled-looking Lessa. Their gunmetal hair is tied back in a messy knot and their wan color of their usually glowing skin makes them appear as if they haven’t been sleeping well.
“Is it the baby?” she asks, ushering them inside. Trying not to panic.
Lessa gestures at their overall appearance, which includes a bland tan jumpsuit. “Yes, this is the baby, but that isn’t why I’m here. I’ve sent you a dozen messages. Where is your device?”
K8 bites her lip. “I put it on Do Not Disturb last night.” She runs to her bedroom, but it isn’t on her nightstand. She returns to the living room to find Lessa plucking it from between the couch cushions. They hold it out to her like it’s dirty.
“Don’t ask,” K8 says, taking it.
Lessa clutches her stomach, glancing away for a few seconds. K8 tries patiently waiting, but not knowing why her normally aloof friend is waking her up at eight in the morning is making her have morning sickness, too.
She scans the messages as Lessa rushes to the bathroom.
Check your email. Can’t sleep. Just got an email from Worldbank.
They’re looking into the accounts of anyone who has done business with GROW recently.
