With Adam.
Something warm brushes my back, and two strong arms cage me in, large hands clasping the stone balcony wall on either side of mine.
“Pretty, huh?”
“Pretty doesn’t begin to describe it,” I breathe out.
Soft lips ghost the shell of my ear. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Shrieks of giggles ring behind us, and I glance behind me to find Connor and Bear rolling around on the plush rug.
Adam chuckles, a warm sound that rattles down my spine. “Think my dog’s in love.”
Yes. The dog. Definitely the dog. Not the…not the human. No. That’s absolutely…no.
I watch Adam’s hand move, so slowly, fingertips trailing my forearm before his palm splays over my belly. Instead of worrying about everything he might feel, the soft lines that speak of my love of Saturday mornings spent baking muffins and midweek batches of cookies, too many iced lattes in the summer and far too many hot chocolates in the winter, I sink into the touch. I revel in the connection, firm fingertips that seem to tingle beneath the material of my sundress, like he’s touching bare skin. My heart pounds in my ears, a steady thrum that both liberates and scares me. I swallow the tightness in my throat, lick at my lips, and beg for a sudden storm to douse the heat singeing my skin.
“Your heart’s going a mile a minute,” Adam murmurs in my ear.
“I…” God, that’s embarrassing. I curl my fingers into my palms until my nails bite the skin. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Frankly, Rosie, I can’t tell you how good it feels to know that, for once in my life, I’m on the same page as someone.”
Our gazes collide, a silent question in mine: Are we on the same page? Really? I’m too nervous to voice it, even though he’s just said the words. But what page is he on? What chapter? How does his book end, and who does he want standing next to him in his epilogue?
I don’t have a choice; my future is that little boy in there. And even if the decision were mine? He’d be my choice, day in and day out. I’ll always choose him.
How nice it would be for someone else to choose us too.
Adam cups my cheek, spinning me into him. Nerves grip my throat, stealing my breath, but he simply leans forward, presses the gentlest kiss to my forehead, and soothes every worry with eight words.
“I’m glad you’re here, Rosie. Both of you.”
I have to start doing yoga or something if I’m going to keep up with Connor, because how am I raising a kid as flexible as the fifteen-month-old who just essentially backflipped into the playpen in Adam’s spare room when I was still trying to explain to him that his nap would look different today? Maybe the breathing techniques would also help not send me into a tailspin at the idea of changing our daily routine even just once.
“Did he go down okay?” Adam whispers, making me jump as I back silently out of the room.
“Yeah, went down like a…a…a…” My eyes roll down to Adam’s bare chest, the patch of dark curls that look so soft, I want to run my fingers through them. Down to the lines of thick, sinewy muscle carved so impeccably, and holy motherforking shit, I was right. It is an eight-pack. And, oh fuck, the swim trunks. They’re tight in the worst way—because I can’t look away—bright, summery stripes that wrap all the way around, hugging every single inch of him.
And, ladies, trust me when I say this: there are a lot of inches.
I mean, Jesus shit. He’s bigger than the underwear guy at the bus stop; I’m sure of it. Or is it the stripes? I always avoid them because I think they make me look bigger. Does it work that way on cocks too?
Yes. Yes, it must. Because there’s no way that he…that he…there’s just no way, right?
This is it. I’m looking destruction right in the face. Obliteration. Total annihilation. That’s the only thing that can possibly come from a dick that big. No woman is surviving a dicking from this man, not without being wheeled out afterward, and possibly in a dick-induced coma.
Oh my God. Archie and Marco were right. I’ve been dickmatized.
“Sorry, did you say…total annihilation?”
My eyes snap to Adam raking his fingers through those tousled curls, a faint blush on his high cheekbones. “Pardon?”
“You were talking about putting Connor down for his nap, but you trailed off and whispered, uh…total annihilation .” He swallows. “I think you were looking at my crotch.”
I force my jaw closed, ignoring the violent cracking sound it makes. My eyes twitch, desperate to coast down, just once more, but I’m not doing it.
Okay, I’m doing it. Fuck. Damnit. My gaze bounces down, then right back up. Adam’s eyes follow, and his mouth curves as molten heat rushes to the tips of my ears.
I dash by him, heading for the stairs. “I’ve gotta put my bathing suit on.”
“I brought your bag into my room. You can change in there.”
I halt, already halfway down the stairs. “Oh.” Whipping around, I strut by him, keeping my eyes on my feet. “Thanks.”
“Rosie?”
I pause at his door, watching his feet come closer, until all I can smell, all I can breathe, is him.
“Need help?”
I swallow. “No.” Maybe.
“’Kay.” Sizzling fingertips slide up my arm, hitching the strap of my dress back up to my shoulder. “Holler if you change your mind, trouble.”
I do need help. All sorts of it. Help cooling my jets, because I haven’t had sex in over a year, and looking at him, it’s suddenly all I can think about. I’m flustered. So flustered. He’s so sweet and kind, so patient, and then he springs these little things on me, lingering, searing touches, starved gazes, hot, teasing words drenched in intensity. I’m horny as hell, clearly, which is new and scary, but I’m not ready to jump into that, and what if that’s what he’s expecting?
But beyond that, I need help finding the confidence to walk out of here in this bikini.
I don’t want to feel pretty for Adam. I want to feel pretty for me.
And right now, as I stand before his mirror and take myself in, I’m struggling.
I remind myself that this body gave me the love of my life. That it grew something from nothing. That it endured endless bouts of sickness, days spent hugging the toilet, aches and pains that made me feel like I’d never walk properly again, an emergency surgery that—so briefly—convinced me I was less of a woman because I couldn’t push my child out. A surgery that had me unable to stand on my own for days, to take more than a couple steps with my newborn in my arms.
This body isn’t perfect, but it’s strong. Physically, mentally, in everything I’ve worked so hard to overcome.
This body isn’t perfect, but for all it’s done and everything it’s given me, it’s beautiful.
I tie the string of my sheer cover-up at my hip and take a breath before opening the door, starting down the stairs.
The photos lining the wall of the staircase catch my eye, and I pause to take them in. It’s Adam in every single one of them, I’m sure of it. Even the tiny boy tucked into the side of the smiling couple is so clearly him, vibrant cobalt eyes, the most genuine grin with just a hint of mischief.