Page 49 of Easy On Me

So when we were home, I was usually where he was, fiddling with the herb garden if he was in the yard, trying to learn if he was working on the small renovations we’d started, drooling over the way his muscles moved while he ran the weedeater or swung a hammer or ran a paintroller over the walls.

His forearms flexed with the paint roller the same way they did when he braced and thrust into me.

A little flutter of desire uncurled low in my belly. That wasn’t new either. I wanted him, all the time.

Unsurprisingly, he was okay with that.

“You sure you don’t want blue?”

I allowed cerulean to puddle on the paper. “I’m sure.”

Our early DNA test showed no genetic anomalies . . . and a son. But in my head, his room was soft, gentle, constant.

Like his daddy.

I envisioned ivory walls with the hardwoods and a rug in hushed blues and greens, so we’d picked out paint and ordered a rug from the home decor place downtown. I was painting him a woodland pool, blue and green, a little brown, some lilypads, and a few tall trees to shelter him the way the men in his life would.

Jase. Mr. John. Mr. Lewis.

My boy would have more than a father.

And he did have a father who sheltered me so I could learn what I hadn’t known until Mama Nancy.

“That looks good.” Placing the roller in the tray, he leaned down to kiss me, then sprawled on his side next to me, easy and relaxed in gray sweats and a black t-shirt. Somehow, he’d managed to stay completely paint free.

“I like it.” The piece was my third attempt. Not perfect, but real. Intention and calm.

Like us.

“You could put a deer right here.” His fingertip danced over a subtle shadow under one of the trees. The corner of his mouth quirked up, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “And Grandaddy over there with his rifle–”

“No.” I nudged my elbow into his belly. The lean muscle didn’t give.

Smirking, he jerked his chin to the wall he’d just painted, where the crib would go. “Then we could hang a rack right there–”

“No.” My withering look had zero effect on him, like always. “We are not hanging dead animal parts in our little boy’s room.”

“You realize our little boy is going to bring a deer home one day.”

“We’ll talk about it.” I was still getting used to the idea of a baby and here he was talking about a little boy old enough to learn to hunt.

I didn’t have enough context to frame that yet.

But that little boy I couldn’t imagine had a daddy who could. He’d do more than teach him how to hunt. He’d love and nurture and hold him steady and safe.

With this man, I wouldn’t have to worry about my baby.

My little boy.

“You’re thinking hard again.” He tapped the corner of my lips, dropped a fast kiss there, then rolled to his feet in a series of slow easy movements that took my breath.

He took my breath.

I love you pressed up in my throat, surprising me. Choking me. I didn’t just give those words away. They belonged to Mama Nancy, to Maggie, to Marilyn.

Now to my baby.

And to Jase.