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“I think we’re passed dressing up for each other,” Nate says with a soft smile as he works the arch of my foot expertly. “You should be comfortable when you’re pregnant, and I don’t care what you wear. Besides, wearing shoes this tall seems dangerous. What if you fall?”
“Trust me, I’m a pro at wearing heels.” I wave him off. “My ex always said we’re judged by the way we look and dress. He wouldn’t so much as go to the grocerystore without dressing properly. I guess his views kind of rubbed off on me.”
“I get it,” Nate admits. “In our line of work, everything is about appearances. But here in your home, when you’re with me, I want you to be comfortable.” He releases one foot and starts working on the other. “This is a judgment-free zone. Besides” —he smirks— “I know how gorgeous this body is under the clothes. I don’t give a fuck what you wear.”
“Trust me, that body you remember is changing.” I lift my shirt and expose my newly protruding belly. “So, hopefully, you memorized it because I don’t think it will ever be the same.”
Nate stops massaging my foot and sets it aside, then leans in, placing his hand on my belly. “You’re carrying our baby in here. Whatever changes occur will only make you that much more gorgeous.” He dips his head and presses a soft kiss to the spot just on top of my belly button. “I can’t wait to watch you grow with our baby.”
He glances up at me, and my breath hitches at the way his eyes shine with awe and love. A look nobody has given me since my mom was alive. Sure, John said he loved me, and he was attracted to me, but he never, in all the years we dated, looked at me like I was…everything.
“Thank you,” I choke out, my emotions getting the better of me.
“You don’t have to thank me for being honest,” Nate says, sitting back up and scooting closer so mylegs are sprawled across his lap. “Now, what should we order for dinner?”
“Oh my God,this is sooo good,” I moan, taking a bite of the chicken chow mein straight from the container.
After we decided on Chinese, since I couldn’t pick one dinner, Nate ordered a little bit of everything. At the time, I thought he was crazy, but as I chow down on the various foods in front of me, I happen to think he’s a genius.
“Try this,” Nate says with a chuckle, lifting a crab rangoon to my mouth. “They’re delicious.”
I take a bite and moan as the perfect mix of cream cheese and crab hits my taste buds. “So good,” I agree.
Once I’ve chewed and swallowed my bite, I grab a piece of the honey garlic chicken and pop it into my mouth. It’s sweet, and the chicken is tender yet crispy.
“Try this.” I fork a piece and lean over to give Nate a bite, but before it reaches his mouth, the honey-covered chicken falls off my fork and rolls down the front of his white shirt. “Shit,” I say, jumping up. “I’m so sorry. Let me see if I have a shirt for you to change into.”
“It’s okay.” He laughs. “I doubt you have anything that will fit me.”
I actually know for certain that I do, but that will mean…
I glance at his shirt that’s now covered in stickiness,debating if I should just let him stay like that or if I should try to wash it or…
When he attempts to wipe the honey off and it smears, making it worse, I head to my room, yelling over my shoulder, “Give me a minute, and I’ll try to find you something.”
I grab the shirt from my drawer and bring it out to him. “Here, this should fit you.”
He glances down at the gray shirt with the Aspen skiing logo that’s identical to the shirt he wore during our time in London and smirks.
“You stole my shirt?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question because he already knows I did. He wore it to bed, and after we made love, I put it on and kept it.
“Just take the damn thing,” I say with a huff, my face heating from embarrassment.
I extend my hand out for him to take the shirt, but instead of him grabbing it, he tugs on the fabric, jerking me toward him until I’m situated on his lap, my legs straddling him.
“I love that you kept a piece of me,” he murmurs, his face only a breath away from mine. “Tell me, Princess, did you sleep with it on?”
His gaze locks with mine, and the fire in his eyes has me squirming.
“Yes,” I admit, making him growl under his breath.
He brings the shirt up to his nose and inhales, and I cover my face with my hands.
“You haven’t washed it,” he murmurs. “It smellslike me…and you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I’m a freaking weirdo who stole your shirt and slept with it every night without washing it because it smelled like you.”
“Nothing about that is weird,” he says, lifting my chin so I’m forced to look at him. “You remember the silky underwear you wore to the wedding? The pair I pocketed?”