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“Sure. I still have to whip the potatoes and finish the green beans.” She stepped back, the reality of sweat and grime seeming to steal some of the fantasy from the scene she’d prepared.
Pausing long enough to tell Alexa to play their favorite slow jams and give Jules another kiss, this one longer and deeper, Ben dashed up the narrow stairway to the second floor. Ten minutes later, wet hair dripping onto the collar of his blue button-up, khaki shorts riding low on his hips, he returned to the kitchen.
He came up behind her, nestling her backside into the juncture of his thighs as his hands cupped her belly. She was so much smaller than he was that holding her like this, tight against his chest, his shoulders a shelter against the world, made him feel like a warrior protecting his queen. In this moment, it seemed nothing could harm her or make her unhappy. He wanted to remain like this—if not forever, at least until Skye was ready to be born strong and healthy and the doctors could remove the brain tumor threatening Jules’ life.
“Let’s eat,” she said, turning in his embrace, angling her belly to the side to twine her arms around his waist and tuck her head beneath his chin. “Then let’s talk.”
“Then?” He cupped her ass and pulled her close.
“I made dinner,” she teased, wiggling against him. “You’re in charge of—” The word eluded her.
“Dessert.” Drawing in a fortifying breath, encouraged by her efforts, he asked hesitantly, “Does it bother you when I finish your sentences or fill in the blank when you can’t find the words?”
“No, not really.” She glanced at the food getting cold on the counter, then returned her attention to him and the conversation.
He sensed this discussion was the real motive behind her provocative dress and elaborate meal, and it made him love her even more. Sometimes the hardest part of talking things out was finding a way to open the dialogue, and she’d been the one to take that risk.
Suddenly he didn’t feel very much like a warrior.
“Sit down, babe.” He pointed to her chair. “I’ll serve. Tell me more about what it’s like for you.”
She took a sip from her water glass, then dropped her hands into her lap. Ben got a Yuengling from the fridge for himself and brought the food to the table.
“You know when a word is on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach? You know what you want to say. You can almost picture it. It’s right there, but it won’t come to you. It’s frustrating.” She frowned.
“Do you remember how my grandparents used to finish each other’s sentences?” Ben filled Jules’ plate with a thick slice of meatloaf, scoop of mashed potatoes, and pile of green beans, then doubled the amount of food on his own plate. “MeeMaw said they’d been together so long, each knew what the other was going to say before it came out of their mouth.”
“My favorite story is how PawPaw used to act out a word when he couldn’t remember it, and MeeMaw knew exactly what he meant.” She smiled at the memory. “Like when she was going to the market, and he wanted chicken.”
Laughing, they tucked their hands into their armpits and mimicked chicken wings.
“You’re saying we’ve reached that point already?” she asked. “That we know what the other is thinking?”
“No. Far from it.” Ben grew serious. “It’s one thing to fill in a word here and there, but I’m never sure what’s going on in your head. It feels like you intentionally keep me out sometimes, and I’m not sure why. When I don’t know what you’re thinking or feeling, it’s hard to know what to say or do.”
“And sometimes when you don’t say or do anything, I assume it’s because you don’t care or are upset or want out—”
“Want out? You mean, like a divorce?” He jerked back, stunned.
“You can’t deny there have been times in the past when our marriage was on the brink of falling apart,” she said, her food untouched.
“Not because I wanted out.” He shook his head. “Not because I stopped loving you.”
“Because we couldn’t talk?”
“Because we couldn’t find a way to work through all thestuff.” He took a long swallow of cold beer, thoughts a jumble. Surely, all of the anguish they’d endured wasn’t because of poor communication. Could an honest, open conversation have spared them all that angst?
“Marisol is right,” Jules mused. “I’ve been renting way too much space in your head. Making assumptions about what your actions mean instead of asking.”
“You can ask now.” He put down his fork and knife, directing all his attention to his wife.
Her mouth tilted in a sexy smile, blue eyes sparkling. “I thought it would be easier to have this conversation over dinner, but maybe we should adjourn to the bedroom.”
“You said I was in charge of dessert.” He stood up, rounded the table, and pulled out her chair. “Mmm, that dress reminds me of the time we got drunk in New Orleans and I covered you in whipped cream and then licked it all off.”
“There’s a can of Reddi-wip in the refrigerator. It was supposed to go on top of the Jumbleberry Pie I got from Zingerman’s Deli, but I won’t complain if you repurpose it.” She gave him a coy look from under her lashes.
Caressing the back of his knuckle over one protruding nipple, he murmured approval. “I’m so glad Dr. Kettner gave us the go-ahead on marital relations during this pregnancy.”
