Page 46 of Fall Love

He reaches for my wrist, tugging me toward the sink, pulling my hands under the warm water. But I can’t go another round of finger play. If he washes my hands, using soap and suds, lathering me up, I’m going to combust. I’m going to beg him to do something to me he probably has no interest in doing with a pregnant woman. Even if I am the mother of his future child.

Because I want my baby daddy to fuck me.

Instead, I gently pull my hands from his. “I got this,” I say, my voice shaky, matching the tremble in my knees. “You get the ziti.”

I nod toward the oven, then drop my gaze to the water rushing out of the faucet, where my eyes grow cloudy as I wash away the evidence that he ever had my fingers in his mouth.

Scrubbing, as if I can wash away this strange sensation of wanting him again.

CHAPTER 17

[Neve]

My sisters and I have made a final decision. Not that Icelyn was much help, but Lumi led the discussion, and Isolde agreed. Take the deal. I let Lumi give Tate the good news. The good-for-him news.

All I wanted to do was bury myself in bed, but Isolde and Lumi are at my door bright and early Saturday morning.

“Breakfast,” Isolde says, a little too cheerfully.

“Porthole in the Wall,” Lumi says, like a greasy breakfast at our favorite diner will solve everything.

Porthole in the Wall is the official name of a small diner frequented by locals. It’s one of the rare gems we keep to ourselves. The bright red entrance door with a porthole window looks like the swing door to a restaurant kitchen. The fieldstone exterior contrasts with the tight interior that looks like the galley of a ship. One long, wooden-backed bench lines a wall. Tables with two chairs on the opposite side of the bench fill the space. On the opposite wall are two-tops, set close together.

Gladys hollers for us to take a seat wherever we can find space. Thankfully, a couple in the corner are finished, and we slide into their seats when they leave. Gladys is the only waitress today. She’s as much of an institution as the diner itself. Quickly, she comes over to our table, swipes it clean of dishes and crumbs, then returns to pour each of us a coffee without asking if we want any. She dumps a handful of sugars and creamers on the table before rushing off again.

My doctor said to cut back on coffee, especially the caffeinated stuff, so I’ve had to cross over the foo-foo line of fancy coffee substitutes to get my fix.

“Let me just smell it,” I say, pulling a mug toward me and lowering my head to inhale the morning nectar. Only my nose wrinkles, because the acrid aroma is almost too much. My stomach rolls a little bit.

“Morning sickness?” Isolde asks me, sympathy in the question.

I shake my head. I haven’t had morning sickness since the first few months. Now it’s just heartburn, and yesterday evening, I had chest pain like I’ve never experienced before. It could have been the combination of raw apple pie filling and baked ziti, but something told me that burn was caused by something else.

Disappointment.

“So, the elephant in the room . . .” Lumi begins.

“That’s not really a nice way to talk about me,” I state, sitting straighter.

Isolde chuckles and shakes her head like I’m ridiculous.

“Tate,” Lumi states, almost a little too loudly because the couple at the table closest to us turns their heads.

I lean toward Lumi, shushing her.

Isolde turns toward Lumi. “Did she just tell you to be quiet?”

Lumi cracks a smile, knowing I’m typically the loud one in the bunch.

I glance over my shoulder at the couple who have returned to their scrambled eggs.

“There’s no elephant.” I lower my voice, addressing my sisters.

“How about apple pie?” Lumi says, tipping up a brow.

“Why are we speaking in metaphors?” Isolde asks. Then she turns her attention to me. “You told him, right?”

She knows I did.