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ChapterTwenty
My stomach clenchesbeneath the new tattoo. “We got married.”
Art rubs absently at his chest, smearing a thousand calories worth of dessert in the process. “It seems like we followed the plan.”
“Sure.” I imbue the word with enough sarcasm to make an army of teenage girls jealous. “Everything went according to plan.”
He throws a glance at my naked belly and the message written there. “Fair. But marriage, at least, was part of the plan.”
“We never agreed to consummate it!” My Spartan yelling is back, and it amps up my headache a few notches.
Art grabs his head in his palms in the style of “The Scream” painting. “Maybe we didn’t?”
I hurriedly run my gaze over the room. “There!” I point at a nightstand where a used condom is lying inside an empty dessert bowl. “I bet that has DNA evidence inside.”
We totally did it, and the worst part is that I don’t remember.
He looks at the condom, then at me. “At least we used protection.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we did it many, many times, and some of them without protection. We have no idea how much time we’re missing.”
I don’t add that my soreness seems to be indicative of more than just a drunk quickie. Then again, maybe it’s due to the bigness of Mr. Big.
His eyes darken further, and his voice drops an octave. “I’m clean. What about you?”
My ovaries do a loop-de-loop. “Same,” I manage to say. “But I’m not on the pill.”
I let that sink in for both of us.
The idea of maybe becoming a dad must be energizing for Art. He leaps to his feet. “How about we clean up, then investigate?”
I follow him, and by the time I’m on my feet, my head feels like it might give birth to another head—one that will also have a headache. “Should we shower together?”
I’m not asking because I need the sight of him naked and uncensored by dessert in my rub bank. Or because I’m hoping one thing will lead to another, and the endorphins might actually do our headaches some good.
Fine, maybe I am hoping for those things, but I figure when you’re already in for a penny, you might as well be in for a pound… of pounding.
He steps back as if I were a swarm of horny bees. “No.”
“No?” My stomach muscles tense so much some dried white stuff cakes off me and falls to the floor.
Art glances at the newly exposed flesh before raising his eyes to mine. He looks contrite. “I’m really sorry. Last night shouldn’t have happened. Showering together now would only—”
“Say no more.” I grit my teeth, making my headache throb in my jaw. “You’re right. You go ahead and shower first.”
What was I thinking? The guy has a ballerina harem at his disposal, and the only thing he needs from me is the green card. Right now, all he wants is to wash the stink of me off his body.
Art’s lips press together in a slight grimace. “I think you should go first.”
Is this chivalry, or is he saying I smell bad?
“You go,” I say. “Age before beauty.”
I don’t feel like a beauty after being rebuffed, but I want him to feel like age.
“Ladies first. That’s my final answer.”
“Fine.” I step on a cake as I head over to the desk to grab the dress and the lingerie—the only clothing I see around. I also take the Manolo Blahniks, then go in search of the bathroom.
