One
Callie
I’m not getting out of bed today.
This is an amazing mattress. Just the right amount of firm-to-soft ratio. This comforter rocks too. It’s puffy but not suffocating. These sheets are a high thread count. Breathable. I did good when I picked these out. I could stay here all day. Don’t need to go grocery shopping. Who needs to eat when you have a mattress like this? Laundry? Pffft. I won’t need clothes if I stay in bed. This is the perfect solution to all of life’s problems.
But what is that awful smell?
A long, wet tongue slides across my cheek, and I groan. “Go back to sleep, Maverick.”
With my eyelids still closed, I reach out and smooth my fingers through my retriever’s fluffy fur. His tongue makes another pass over my cheek, and again, I’m hit with a blast of that stench.
My nose scrunches as my head jerks up off the pillow. “Maverick, did you eat your poop again?”
His head dips down, and he rests it on top of his front paws.
“Don’t give me those eyes! They’re not going to work on me this time.”
He leaps off the bed and bounds into the hallway, tail swatting from left to right as he waits for me at the top of the stairs.
Guess I’m getting out of bed.
I flip the comforter off my body, swing my legs to the side of the mattress, and jam my feet into my plush white slippers.
Once I’m vertical, my head throbs like someone dropped an anvil on it. I grip onto the cool iron bannister and take my time down the spiral staircase. Maverick waits at the bottom, his body thrashing like a shark from the momentum of his tail.
“You are way too awake for me right now, bud.”
He woofs in response and prances into the kitchen ahead of me.
When I stagger into the kitchen, sunlight streams through the windows, reflecting off the marble countertop and searing my retinas. I yank the cord on the blinds and bury my face in the crook of my elbow, hissing like Dracula.
Maverick plops down at my feet, nuzzling my ankle with his wet nose. We both jump when we hear the creak of the front door, and then he takes off into the foyer.
Paul strides into the kitchen, saturated in sweat from his morning run, and I hold my breath until his lips curve up into a smile.
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
Relief washes over me. “Morning. How was your run?”
Paul snatches a water bottle from the refrigerator and twists off the cap. “Four miles today.”
His royal-blue Under Armour T-shirt clings to his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps flexing with his movements. His blond strands are damp and disheveled, and his skin glows with a golden sheen.
I lift an eyebrow. “How is it that you look this sexy after a four-mile run?”
He grins. “How is it that you look this sexy when you just woke up?”
I huff out a sardonic laugh, knowing damn well I resemble the Crypt Keeper at the moment.
Paul leans in with puckered lips, but I make an X with my forearms in front of my face. “The poop-eating bandit got me. You might want to stay back.”
He looks down at Maverick, and as if he knows we’re talking about him, Maverick ducks around the corner of the island.
“You’re nasty, dog.”
“I’ll call the vet today. Maybe they’ll know how to deter him from eating his own feces.”
Paul leans his hip against the counter. “I think all dogs eat their own crap.”
“We have to watch him better when he’s out back. Stop it before he can get to it.” I walk around the island so I can start on breakfast. “I read something once that said dogs eat their poop when they’re lacking vitamins in their diet. Was it an article? Maybe Josie told me. I don’t know; I can’t remember. Either way—”
I stop moving and snap my fingers in front of Paul’s face. “Are you even listening to me?”
Paul shakes his head, his eyes roving over my body. “I haven’t heard one word since you stood up in those silky shorts.”
I smile and set a frying pan on top of the stove. “Please. This isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.”
“Yet it never gets old.” He closes the distance between us and stands behind me, trailing his hands up my arms.
I hum at his light touch, welcoming it. “Let’s hope you always think that.”
“I know I will.” He tilts my head to the side and presses his lips to my neck. One of his hands slips under my camisole, cupping my breast, while he tugs my shorts down with the other.
My head falls back against his shoulder, and a long exhale leaves my parted lips. “Don’t you have a meeting?”
“Just means we’ll have to be quick.” His fingers slide between my thighs and press inside me while his thumb rubs circles on my clit at the same time.
My legs quiver, and I reach forward to grip the edge of the counter. Paul gives my back a gentle push until my chest is pressed against the cool marble, and then he slides his length inside me.
“I love you,” he whispers at my ear, gripping my hips, pumping in and out of me in long, controlled strokes.
I arch my back to meet each of his thrusts, and his fingers return to my clit as he drives into me faster, harder, deeper. I moan, writhing against his hand, and his pace quickens.
I can feel the pleasure mounting in my core, the steady build like a rising wave. Soon, it crashes over me. I cry out as the spasms rack through my body. Paul goes under too, grunting as his hot liquid fills me.
He holds me there, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my temple. “This is what I’ve missed. I’m so glad we can finally get back to how things used to be.”
“Me too.”
And that’s my halfhearted truth.
I should relish in this feeling, the closeness, his gentle love, but my mind crawls toward the analytical place it always goes to, calculating the date, the time, the exact location in my cycle. My fingers itch to reach for my phone and click on the fertility app out of habit, but for the first time in three years, I don’t.
And after last night, I never will again.
With a pat on my backside, Paul pulls away and tucks himself back into his running shorts. “I’m hitting the shower.”
My eyes linger on his wide back and confident swagger as he leaves the room with his head held high, free from the anxious thoughts that plague me.
Guilt squeezes my chest when I think about everything that I’ve put him through over the past few years. The stress, the doctor’s appointments, all my tears.
No more.
Paul’s right. We need to get back to the way we used to be. Back before I became obsessed with starting a family. Before I plunged into depression and dragged him down with me. Before the people we were when we got married turned into strangers.
It’s time to put it to rest.
And it’s up to me to do it.
I can be better.
I can find happiness again.
I straighten my camisole, pull up my shorts, and start gathering the ingredients I need for breakfast.
The kitchen is my favorite room in this entire house. Beautiful marble countertops; tall, white cabinets; stainless steel appliances. Paul had the contractor create it based off of my exact vision. He says it’s because he loves me so much. I say it’s because he needs me to cook for him because Paul could burn water.