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I blow out a breath and try to shake away those thoughts. I know what might happen one day.
I never intended to fall in love with Issac, but I did. I'm in too deep to imagine ever losing him now, so I'll ride this train for as long as it lasts.
Dex pulls my leg over his shoulder, rubbing my foot as it rests against his chest.
We put on a movie.
It's not long before Vince is sleeping with his arms crossed over his chest.
Dex massages my calves. Tipping his head up, he shoots me a panty-melting smile.
I smile back.
I've missed this.
Dex used to be my best damn friend. It was so easy to be around him. I miss him more than I'd like to admit. But I always knew it would come to this. He was settling to be with me, and was always going to wake up one day and need an omega.
I push away those thoughts and try to focus on the moment. It's comfortable and domestic, something I'm craving worse than a two a.m. taco run. But I can't let myself get too wrapped up in it. These moments are fleeting, they never last.
Especially in the lifestyle Issac and Dexter live, but it's their dream.
I knew what I was signing up for.
Chapter Seven
Jude Walker
Dropping my keys into the bowl by the front door, I head for the living room.
Love and I have a series to binge. The penthouse is quiet except for the soft sounds of the TV playing in the background.
It's bizarre being here. It's the exact same floor plan as the unit across the hall, except inverted.
It's weird working for Love, but I don't mind. I'm fond of Lyric Sinclair, she's a good kid, but it was scary watching her spiraling.
I much prefer working with Love.
I come around the corner, stopping dead in my tracks.
Love is leaning over, but she's standing on the damn kitchen counter. She's stretching her back and hips, swaying from side to side. She looks absolutely miserable. The edge of her open black lace robe obscures the side of her pregnant belly. Her wavy dark brown hair falls around her shoulders.
She's holding onto the upper-level cabinets.
I'm across the room and to her in three long strides. She tips her head back toward the ceiling and sniffles.
"Whatcha doing?" I ask, setting the bags down on the counter.
"Me? I'm doing nothing. My hips are busy trying to fall right out of their sockets," Love groans.
"Do you want to tell me why the hell you're on the kitchen counter with a feather duster and the Windex at one a.m.?" I ask, scratching at my jaw.
There's a puzzle here. I just can't seem to figure out the solution.
"I really don't know," Love grumbles. "I needed to clean, and then I tried to get down, but every time I stretch my foot to reach the step-stool my hips twinge. I was afraid I might fall."
I swipe a hand over my face, trying not to laugh. She's really fucking cute. She's likely in the early stages of nesting. That random urge to clean in the middle of the night is common enough during pregnancy.
"Don't give me that look," she says, pointing a finger at me.
