“I know there is. We've had some fantastic sex in that shower, but no. He made me run here.”
“He made you run all the way from the city to Weston?”
Andrew rakes one hand through soaking wet, dark hair. “Yes. Stuck with me the first ten miles, then peeled off to head to his home.”
“That's got to be twenty miles!”
“We started at the gym. Fourteen point eight, to be exact.”
“I didn't know you could run that far.”
“Neither did I, until today.”
“Your security team let you do that?”
“Let?” Andrew's glare makes me feel like my skin is being peeled off by lasers. “My team doesn't let me do anything.” He puffs up. “I do what I want.”
“Right.” I avert my eyes. “Why is Vince pushing you so hard?”
“Because old Jorg told him.”
Uh oh.
The chain of gyms is Andrew’s personal project, and I'm so excited for him. Telling Vince about it was presenting a challenge to my husband, and now it sounds like that has just exploded.
Andrew begins to stretch, giving me a chance to admire his body, but nausea is trying to creep back in. This mixed reaction to the world is driving me nuts. How can I be nauseated and sexually aroused at the same time? The two conditions are wholly incompatible, but welcome to pregnancy, where nothing makes sense and all of the inconvenience is on you.
“I'm sorry. How'd it go?”
He lets out a laugh that doesn't sound amused at all. “It went fourteen point eight miles of pain, that's how it went. Vince thought I was firing him.”
“But you want to hire him!”
“I know. He misinterpreted everything.” Andrew stops at the foot of the stairs and stretches more, a long, slow movement that moves my inner turbulence up a notch.
“So he's angry with you?”
“Fourteen point eight guesses why.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“He thought I wanted to remodel the gyms and make them–his word–bougie.”
“Bougie! No! You want to keep them authentic and comfortable and… gritty. Like they are.”
“Right.”
“And have Vince be in charge of keeping them that way.”
“I told him that. Gina's sending the proposal to him. Already did, in fact. Not sure he'll bite.”
“I hope he does.”
Andrew winces. “Vince replaced my arms and legs with rubber bands filled with pain.”
“You say that every time you come home from a training session with him. Why torture yourself?”
“Because keeping a body like this takes effort.”
I let my eyes comb over his tall, muscular form. “I owe Vince my gratitude, then.”
“Oh, really?” The gleam in his eye makes my stomach clench. He wants sex. My joke triggered the always-on-the-surface reaction that makes it clear how ready he is. Gym shorts hide nothing.
A war begins in my mind, two very different Amandas squaring off.
“So, about your dad,” I blurt out.
Something in his eyes dims. “Yes?”
“He figured out my mother's fibromyalgia.”
“I see. The conversation is now about our parents. Got it.” Andrew pauses, as though my words are finally sinking in after a time delay. “My father did what?”
“Figured out the source of her fibromyalgia.”
“My father? James McCormick? Are we talking about the same man?”
“We are. He encouraged Mom to get some complicated Lyme disease test, and it came back positive. It could explain everything with her.”
“Lyme?”
“I know, right?”
Andrew guides me upstairs, gently encouraging me to walk up the stairs first.
“Where are we going?”
“I need a shower.” He winks at me, eyes going straight to my midsection, his wolfish smile softening. My body is growing two human beings that are part him. It connects us. His loving gaze is endearing, a source of comfort.
The babies are part me, too, of course, but the idea that I have a piece of Andrew in me is so amazing.
Happiness makes me warm. Or maybe that's just hormones.
We walk into the bathroom together, and Andrew turns on the shower jets. The renovated master bath is half shower room, half everything else. Satin nickel frames the creamy white subway tiles of the shower walls, the floors all Carrera marble. We went for a classic look in here, timeless elegance to suit this antique estate. Sconces are mounted on the mirrored wall over the sinks, adding extra sparkle that’s both flattering and soft.
It’s like staying at the world’s most luxurious hotel, but it’s also your home.
“You joining me?”
Before I can answer, he stops himself, reaching for my hand, eyes concerned.
“Wait. Sorry. Let me drag my lust-filled brain out of the lake of testosterone it's swimming in and ask: How is Pam?”
“She's stunned. It was hard to leave her alone today,” I admit, growing even warmer as he pays attention to me. Andrew has a one-track mind. No, not just sex. It's literally a one-track mind: He focuses on one thing at a time, and one thing only, with one hundred percent attention. Nothing else exists when he's lasered in on whatever captures his focus.
It feels very good to be that object.
“You can go back to her. Honey, I'm sorry,” he says, voice dropping. “Is she in danger?”
“Danger?”
“From the Lyme?”
“Oh, no. The tests show she's had it for a long time. Probably years. Maybe even way back when the fibro was first diagnosed. It's not an emergency. Just... it's a lot to process. Mom was furious that none of her other doctors ever figured it out, and then she went into research mode. You know how she is.”
He smiles, but it's a muted amusement. “I'm sure she had PubMed pulled up within seconds and created a database of possible treatments before you could brew a cup of coffee.”
“Close,” I say, smiling right back. My stomach flips, not from the babies, but from knowing he understands my mother so well. This is what families do, right?
They accept one another. They watch each other. They see people and help them feel seen and heard.
“Are there treatments we can help with?”
“Help?”
“Research trials? Specialists Pam can't easily access? I'll pull whatever strings I need to,” he says firmly. “Dad will, too. I’m on the hospital board, after all.”
“You know Mom hates that.”
“Too bad.”
That's the other side to family: Sometimes, there's conflict.
“You can't alpha your way through my mother's medical issues.”
“Who says I can't? Watch me.”
Protectiveness radiates off Andrew like the sweaty musk from his workout. While I'm slightly outraged by his dominance, I have to admit, it's also a relief. And sweet. And hot.
Mmmmm, hot.
I reach for my top button and undo it, his eyes growing wider by the second, attentive to my fingers in that super-focused manner he has.
And then he acts.
Naked in seconds, Andrew reaches behind me and slides his hands under the thick elastic of my maternity pants, the fabric pooling at my feet. Sex has been hit-or-miss these last months as morning sickness has ravaged my whole self. When he kisses me, I taste the salt of sweat and the sweet flavor of something fruity, and then he dissolves into just Andrew.