Zack’s jaw muscle tightens into a ball beneath his skin. “That was…partly true.”
Propping a fist on my hip, I arch a brow. “Partly true? That’s not the kind of true I like. You can tell me if things aren’t going well, you know.” My mind coughs out a possible explanation for a cranky music industry professional, and I add, “And if I’m slowing down your progress, I can leave. Seriously. My feelings won’t be hurt. Theo already offered to come pick me up, so I can—”
“No.” Zack pulls me against him with a sudden flex of his arm, making my breath rush out as my breasts flatten against his chest. “Don’t leave.”
“I don’t want to leave,” I whisper, my hormones starting the “We Heart Zack” party, the way they do every time he’s close to me, even with two layers of clothes between us and the threat of snakes lurking in the grass. “But if I’m interrupting your flow, then I should go, Zack. You’re here to make beautiful music, not beautiful love.” My lips quirk up. “No matter how much we both enjoy the second one.”
“We do enjoy the second one.” He threads his fingers into my hair as he cups my cheek with his other hand. “Productivity isn’t the problem. I’ve written more songs in the past week than in the past year.”
I blink. “Well, that’s good, right? So what is Chip upset about?”
“Chip and his ‘team’ don’t think they’re on point for a strong solo career launch. They’re too emotional. Too soft or…feminine or something like that.”
“Too feminine?” I huff. “That’s ridiculous. Who says only girls get to have feelings? Or only girls can be gentle? I love that you’re gentle and have feelings, and believe me, there is never any doubt in my mind that you’re also one hundred percent man.”
His eyes darken as his fingers thread deeper into my hair. “Yeah? No doubt?”
My tongue slips out to wet my lips. “Well, maybe a tiny, itsy-bitsy shred, but that’s only because I have a terrible memory. But I’m sure if you get me naked again, I’ll be back to one hundred percent again before you know it.”
“Then I guess there’s only one thing left to do…” He slants his head, but I pull back, resting my hands against his chest.
“Seriously, though, that’s crazy. You should be able to be authentic with your music, to explore all the things you think and feel,” I say. The more I mull this over, the more riled up I’m getting. “This is a part of the problem with sexism, you know. It’s not just that women are sexually harassed or not paid fairly. It’s that men aren’t allowed to be vulnerable without getting pushback for not being manly all the time. I mean, there’s a time for manly, but there’s a time for gentle, too.”
“I know, and I agree with you,” he says with a sigh. “But I’m also running a business and selling a product that I need to market. And, like Chip said, it’s easier to market an edgy rock star than an emotionally nuanced one.”
“But so many songs are about feelings other than anger or manliness or whatever,” I counter, hating that he’s under pressure to move away from something that feels authentic for him. “Men are singing about their emotions every time I turn on the radio.”
Zack shrugs. “I guess not as openly as I am. Apparently, my heart is on my sleeve in an uncool way.”
My own heart skips a beat, but I don’t know what to say.
I want to tell him that I love men who wear their hearts on their sleeve and that I don’t give a shit about being “cool,” but he might take that the wrong way. I do love men like that, but I also love decent, average guys. Men who would be content to live out the rest of their lives in the same small town and come home to their wife and children every night.
I’m already so into Zack that being apart from him for a few hours leaves me anxious to be back in his arms. If he were gone on tour, away on the road for a month or more between visits, I would be miserable.
And if I’m miserable, I won’t be capable of being the kind of mother I want to be.
So call this off, crazy. Stop trying to get pregnant before it’s too late.
But it might already be too late—sperm can live inside a woman for as long as five days, and I’m due to ovulate any second now—and I don’t want to stop.
I want Zack’s baby.
I want Zack in every way I can have him for as long as I can have him, even if it’s only for another day or two.
“I’ll call Theo,” I finally whisper, “and ask her to pick me up on Saturday. That gives us two more nights, but you’ll still have an entire week to write new songs without being distracted.”
Pain flashes behind his eyes. “Is that what you want?”
“I want your solo career to be wildly successful, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to support that.” I force a smile. “Besides, I should probably get home and focus on the job hunt. I have money in savings, but more than a few months without income will make things tight.”
He tips his head forward, sending his hair sliding into his eyes, shielding his expression as he says, “All right. But let’s make the most of the time we have left.”
“Heck, yes, we will,” I say, ignoring the tightness in my chest.
This is for the best. And two nights is a long time. We can still make tons of new memories in two nights.
As if reading my mind, Zack sweeps me into his arms, making me laugh as I hook my elbow over his shoulder “What’s this for?”
“I’m taking you into protective custody,” he says.
“Protective custody?”
“From the snakes.” He starts across the grass toward the highest point in the orchard, a rise with a killer view of the surrounding mountains.
“Right. The snakes,” I say, my breath rushing out. “You made me forget about snakes.” My lips quirk into a wry grin. “Until you reminded me, of course.”
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I’ll make you forget again.”
And after we spread out our picnic blanket, he does, sliding his hand under my dress and into my panties, teasing me until I’m begging him to take me. So he does, both of us naked in the sunshine with the smell of warm apples and grass filling the air, making me feel like Eve before she was kicked out of the garden.
“If only she’d been more afraid of snakes,” I murmur as Zack and I lie side by side afterward, our fingers hooked together, catching our breath.
“What’s that?”
“Eve.” I roll my head to the left to catch his gaze. “If she’d been more afraid of snakes, maybe we’d still be in the Garden of Eden. Naked and unashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed,” he whispers, making my stomach flip.
“Me, either.”
“And I don’t really believe in that stuff,” he says with a half-smile. “I think we make our own heaven. Or our own hell. Right here on earth. Depending on how we decide to spend our time.”
I press my lips together, wanting to tell him that being with him feels like heaven. Better than heaven—paradise with more orgasms than my brief religious education during one of my mother’s recovery periods would have led me to believe.