Page 18 of After this Summer (Seasons in Montana: Summer #11)
BEAU
“ A re you ready to go?” I yell, stepping into the kitchen. It’s nearly six o’clock but the house is silent. I’m tempted to call her again when I hear a drawer slam upstairs.
Followed by another.
Toeing off my boots, I walk as quietly as I can through the house toward our bedroom.
The one I share with my wife .
She’s been insatiable since we snuck away and got married.
I’d damn well lost my mind seeing her in the kitchen in nothing but sexy white lingerie, but it was more than that.
The connection we’d been missing had been reignited and was stronger than ever, my thumb brushing over the spot where she’s drawn and redrawn the heart on my ring finger.
It’d felt like a branding on my heart, body, and soul.
The kind I might never survive if she still believes all this is temporary.
Raising my knuckles to knock on the door, I stop just before I make contact with the wood, my gaze snagging on Indie sitting on the edge of the mattress with her head in her hands.
Her body shakes as she cries quietly and my heart breaks in my chest as I cross the floor and drop to my knees in front of her.
“Stunner, let me make it better,” I plead, as I place my hands over hers and gently pull them from her face. “Do you want me to cancel?”
Dinner tonight at my parents’ isn’t going to be the thing that breaks us before I’ve gotten the chance to marry the woman in front of me.
“No.” She sniffs, her eyes puffy as I wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Okay,” I start cautiously. “You want to go to dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Is it something I did?”
“No.” She sniffs again, and I try like hell to put this puzzle together even though half the pieces are missing.
This is okay—this is normal.
“You said you wanted to make something for dessert. Did you do that or did you not get the chance? We can go pick something up. You’ve had a really long week, baby, and my mother won’t care, and hell, I can make a bad joke about you baking something and?—”
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she blurts out, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her face. “I feel huge and everything feels too tight or the fabric is itchy or I hate the color.”
Looking down, I realize she’s wearing one of my T-shirts with the tree farm logo on it, the light blue cotton worn and buttery soft.
“Wear this.” I tug on the sleeve for emphasis.
“But—”
Pressing my mouth to hers, I wait until she gives in, sighing and melting into me, her lips parting so I can slip my tongue between them.
Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her tight, loving every hum and whimper she makes, grounding her in the moment.
In me.
“I needed that,” she admits, pulling back and resting her forehead against mine.
“Me too.”
“I wanted to look nice for dinner. I want your family to like me.”
“They do like you.”
“But I’m not one of those cute pregnant women with the adorable dresses and makeup with their hair all done up and?—”
“Indie.”
“What happens when I don’t have ankles anymore and can’t tie my shoes?” Her bottom lip quivers, and I bite back the smile that wants to escape because she’s fucking adorable.
We’d found her a new doctor before the ink had dried on our marriage certificate and done all the necessary scans and measurements to coincide with her being more than halfway to her due date.
I watched her physically relax the longer the doctor talked.
Strong.
Healthy.
Perfect.
“You’ll still be a stunner,” I tell her, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear.
“I think right now, the best thing is to listen to your body. If this shirt feels good on your skin? I have a whole closet full of them you can wear. If doing your hair and makeup is important then I’ll learn how to do it so you don’t have to. ”
“You’re going to make me cry again,” she whispers, her eyes glassy. “I know I’m being ridiculous; I just can’t help it.”
“I think you’re growing a baby and you’re allowed to be ridiculous.” I pause and then add, “Although if I get a choice, I’d rather learn how to wield a curling iron than learn how to contour or whatever that shit is with the nineteen colors and all the brushes.”
She laughs, the sound light and happy and enough to make my heart feel lighter than it has since I walked inside.
“You’re a good man, Beau Sterling.”
“Your man, Mrs. Sterling.”
She hums, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before standing. “Let’s go before I make you my personal stylist.”
She’s kidding, but I don’t hate the idea because I’d do anything for this woman.
And I think she might be starting to believe it.