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“You’re my woman. Same thing.” His deep eyes studied mine. “The price is nothing to me. Let’s get it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Come on, let’s get our house.”
Months later, we moved in to the villa.
I was six months pregnant, entering my final trimester, and I was big and uncomfortable. I was insecure too, and I missed being the petite little thing I used to be. I missed when my tits were smaller, when my favorite jeans fit me perfectly, when my face wasn’t so full.
Bartholomew acted like he didn’t notice these changes.
God bless that man.
We’d had a designer prepare our home with furniture of Italian craftsmanship. Everything was local, but a couple culinary items were from France, like the stove and pots and pans, at Bartholomew’s instance.
By the time we moved in, it was winter, so the sky was overcast and the world was cold. The fireplace was always lit in every room, and the radiant heat kept our feet warm when we walked across the hardwood.
I still struggled to get accustomed to Bartholomew’s presence. He used to be gone all night, but now he was right beside me. He was also wide awake during the day, spending his morning in an extensive gym session before he had his morning coffee. He spent his time reading on the couch. Then in the evening before dinner, he worked out a second time, doing his cardio. He was already ripped, but he became even tighter, his muscles more pronounced.
So basically, he got hotter and I got fatter.
It started to wear me down, to make me feel like I didn’t deserve him. When people saw us together, they probably wondered what I’d done to land a man like that. Maybe I’d tricked him into knocking me up so he would have to stay.
He stepped out of the shower with the towel around his waist. He was mostly dry, his hair a little messy from scrubbing the towel through the strands. All the cords on his arms and neck bulged like a tightrope. “Something on your mind?” He opened his dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers before he dropped the towel.
His ass was so tight.
I sat up in bed with a book in my lap. Or, I should say, on my stomach. “No. Why?”
He pulled on his boxers before he tossed the towel in the bin. “You’re different.”
“Well…I am pregnant.”
He walked toward the bed, his authoritative eyes locked on mine.
That was all he had to do to put me on edge, to know that he was dead serious. If he looked at our kids like that, we would never need to put them in time-out.
“Laura, I know there’s something on your mind.” He pulled back the sheets so he could lie beside me.
“It’s nothing.”
That angry look returned.
“I’m just feeling a bit self-conscious, okay?”
“Why?”
“Why?” I set the book aside then balanced a glass of water on my stomach. “That’s why.”
His gaze remained cold, like he didn’t understand the point I tried to make.
I put it back before I spilled it. “I’m getting fatter every day, and you’re getting hotter…something I didn’t think was possible.”
“I don’t have anything else to fill my time, Laura.”
My hand moved over my enormous stomach, as if I could somehow hide it underneath my arm. “I’m big. I’m ugly. I’m not the sexy woman who used to meet you in secret hotel rooms…”
“Sweetheart.”
