Page 17 of Touch Me

“My husband the clown. I just meant that you’re supposed tobe in San Diego. And you’re usually gone by now, anyway.” Nikki apparentlytried to get me up at eight, but I was having none of it. Now it’s coming oneleven, and I have no memory of even halfway waking up, much less telling herthat our continuing friendship was directly tied to her letting me get at leasttwo more hours sleep.

I would’ve call her on her bullshit, except that really doessound like me.

Ryan moves to our coffee corner. “San Diego got canceled,and I had paperwork to take care of. Figured I’d have a lazy morning. See mywife.”

“Oh. Great.”

His brows rise, and I force a smile. Normally, I’d alreadybe trying to get him in bed. Because that’s my idea of how to pass a lazymorning. Today, I’m off-kilter. I thought I’d have the house to myself. Tothink about how to tell him.

And to figure out why I’m not even remotely ready to tellhim this thing that he’s going to think is such good news. And, I tell myselfsternly, that I think is good news, too.

As I take a seat at the kitchen island, he grabs two mugs,fills them, and puts one in front of me. I push it a few inches away so as tonot breathe in the aroma and barf all over the island.

He stares at me for what feels like a beat too long, and I’mcertain he’s figured it out, and any minute he’s going to ask me why I’mkeeping my secret. And what the hell am I supposed to say then?

Stop it.

I follow my own order, forcing myself to just sit there,calmly not drinking coffee as he stands on the other side of the island,sipping away at his. I wait for him to ask me what’s wrong.

He doesn’t.

I clear my throat, unnerved by what feels to me like a veryuncomfortable silence. “So, um, get a lot done? Paperwork, I mean.” I’mfidgeting with my fingers and so I lift the coffee, if for no other reason thanthat I can hold tight to the mug.

“Enough.”

“That’s good.” The whole conversation seems off, but Ifigure that’s just my perception because, oh, I’m slightly knocked up and notready to tell my husband.

When Ryan comes around the island to sit on the stool nextto mine, I expect him to kiss me. He doesn’t. He’s just sitting, sipping hiscoffee as I fight the horrible, twisty something’s off feeling that’sstill winding its way through my gut.

Speaking of guts…

I push the coffee away, unable to take the scent of it anylonger. I realize right away how big a mistake that is—I never say no to coffeeunless someone else is offering booze—but I don’t think he’s noticed that atall. Instead, he’s looking at me with the kind of intense expression I haven’tseen since before we got married. Back when I had a habit of running scareddespite wanting him so very, very badly.

I haven’t run in a long time, though, which means that Ihave no idea what that expression is for. But while I might be wildly curious,I know better than to ask.

“—chip,” he says, and I sit up straighter, realizing I’dgotten completely lost in my thoughts.

“Sorry. What?”

“I said I’m going to get a muffin. Do you want one? They’rechocolate chip.”

My stomach growls happily. Apparently, the pregnancy godslike chocolate. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

He nods, then goes to the cabinet and pulls out a box ofbakery muffins I didn’t even know we had. When he brings them back, Ianticipate him standing behind me in that way he has of easing up close, thenbrushing a kiss on the back of my neck. Sweetly gentle and oh-so sexy.

But he goes straight to his stool and puts the box betweenus.

Needless to say, I’m downright paranoid now. I’m about tosuck it up and ask what the fuck is wrong when he puts his hand over mine. “Youprobably shouldn’t have stayed over at Nikki’s last night.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Why not?”

He brushes my cheek. “Kitten, you’re sick. When I heard youspewed your guts onto that prick’s shoes, my first reaction was just that hedeserved it. And I feel like a shit for that.”

“What? Why? He does deserve it.”

Ryan chuckles. “No, because I was thinking about him, notyou. But baby, you’ve been off all morning.” He presses his hand to myforehead, and I wonder if it’s possible to wish oneself into a fever.

“You’re right,” I say, greedily grabbing the excuse’scoattails. “It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour thing.”