Page 11 of Hot Chicken (Sunday Brothers #6)
“Sorry, baby. That wasn’t about you or… anything,” Webb said, instantly contrite. “I can’t see around these boxes, and I nearly tripped over a—” He lifted the groceries higher so he could peer down at the spot beside his boots. “Ceramic chicken?”
I set the cooler down on the porch and found that there was, indeed, a white ceramic chicken blocking the door, with a bright pink sticky note stuck to its head.
As Webb went inside, I grabbed the note and read aloud.
“ Dear Webb and Luke. Congratulations! You are now the proud owners of Sir Pecksworth, aka Pecky, aka the Cock of Good Fortune (though Knox says not to call it that where he can hear you). Hawk passed this magical cock to us, and we got very lucky as a result —” I glanced up. “The, ah, very is underlined. Twice.”
“Jesus,” Webb muttered, lip curling.
“ We got very lucky as a result ,” I repeated, “ which we’ll tell you all about tomorrow night at dinner ? —”
“They fucking will not.”
“— so we’re passing him on to you. Give Pecky a good home, and his luck will be yours. Love, Gage and Knox. ”
Webb shook his head. “My brothers get weirder with each passing day.”
He wasn’t wrong. Still…
“It was sweet of them to think of us, though, right?” I picked up the rooster for a closer look and pulled up its hinged lid. “Oh, and it can hold cookies!”
“Hmm.” Webb peered over my shoulder at the rooster.
“You know, when Drew lived here while we were growing up, he used to have a whole lineup of ceramic poultry on that kitchen shelf.” He pointed at the shelf over the counter, which now held my hand-thrown mixing bowls.
“Ducks with come-hither eyes, chickens with lipstick painted on, geese with dapper blue bow ties. And he used to hide his weed stash in a little jar right behind them—” He stopped as if he’d heard his own words, and amused green eyes met mine.
“This is the first time I’m realizing those things might be related. ”
I laughed out loud. “Well, I think Pecky’s kind of cute.” I ran a finger over his chipped wing. “And, ah, extremely well-endowed in the wattle department.”
“Bulging wattles like those are a sign of heatstroke in roosters,” Webb informed me seriously.
I felt a burst of fondness for my husband.
“Heatstroke might explain his trippy eyes, too. But he’s got personality.
” I set the rooster on the sideboard near the front hall, where he’d be safer next time Aiden “ accidentally forgot, bruh! ” that he wasn’t supposed to practice baseball indoors, and turned back to my husband.
“So! About those ultrasound pictures. Wanna see?—?”
“Later. I’d better get these groceries in before they melt,” Webb interrupted. “You start putting stuff away, and I’ll grab what’s left in the car, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said faintly, though Webb had already fled. “Sure.”
I blew out a breath and let my neck fall back, inspecting the ceiling beams for extra patience, but there was none to be found.
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why it wasn’t easy for Webb to talk about this. Why he was cautious. Hell, why he was downright scared. After all, this wasn’t our first or even second surrogacy rodeo.
The first time around, we’d been nothing but optimistic.
The minute we’d found a surrogate, Webb had started working on a handmade crib, I’d started crocheting things for the nursery, and we’d debated how we’d announce the eventual pregnancy.
When our surrogate had changed her mind late in the process, sending us back to square one, the disappointment had been crushing.
The second time around, we’d tried to keep a leash on our expectations to protect ourselves from disappointment, but we’d both done a shit job of it. Month after month, we’d held our breath, but when our new surrogate hadn’t gotten pregnant, our hearts had broken all over again.
Coming up with the money and the heart to try again had been…
well, fraught. Webb had openly questioned whether we should give up, and I’d been on the fence, myself.
But when a popular knitwear designer had asked to buy the rights to one of my patterns for an exorbitant fee—more than I’d made on all my other patterns put together and almost exactly the amount we needed—it had felt like fate.
I’d pleaded with Webb to give it just one more shot, and he’d agreed.
This time, though, Webb wasn’t just tempering his expectations; it was like he was willfully preventing himself from getting excited. Even though Josie had gotten a positive pregnancy test. Even though she was four months along already with our twins.
When I climbed into bed at night and shared my own excitement about our girls, or Josie’s newest pregnancy symptom, Webb would give me a vague, supportive smile…
while his eyes swam with anxiety. And as soon as I finished talking, he’d jump up, muttering something about feeding the dog, or cows, or sheep, and flee the room.
Anytime we curled up together on the sofa, Webb would listen attentively to my plans for the nursery and my ideas for baby names, but when I asked what he wanted, he’d feel the sudden, immediate need for a shower, a snack, or a trip to the basement to triple-check that he’d turned the lights off.
He was clearly trying to be a supportive husband and father, as usual, and I knew how committed he was to our family. That never changed. But I hated how his anxiety was creating literal and figurative space between us.
I’d been as patient as I could, but it was past time for us to have The Big Conversation about what was going on with him and how we could work through it together.
Webb hauled in the last of the groceries and ran a hand over his sweaty hair. “Need my help putting things away? ’Cause if not, I could really use a shower, and then we can do… well, anything you want.” His sweet, sexy grin was back.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if “anything” involved telling our loved ones about the twins’ existence sometime before they graduated college, for fuck’s sake, but I bit my tongue .
Webb swallowed, obviously sensing my mood, and hesitated. “Luke, I…” He broke off with a shake of his head.
I loved Webb Sunday. Loved him more than anyone on Earth.
And I didn’t want to fight with him. Heck, I wasn’t even angry , really.
What I wanted was to make this weird barrier disappear so I could feel close to my husband again.
For him to let me in and explain what he was feeling. I knew fighting wouldn’t achieve that.
“Go on,” I said, shooing him with my hand. “Get clean.”
I watched him go, and a moment later, I heard the water turn on in the big downstairs bathroom, where we usually cleaned up after farm chores. With a sigh, I turned back to the groceries… but my eye caught on the cute little rooster, who seemed to be watching me.
“Hey, if you’re as lucky as Gage says, Sir Pecksworth, I could use a little help,” I said out loud, and then my whole face got hot.
Was I honest to God talking to Gage’s lust-inducing cookie jar? Was this what I’d sunk to?
As I packed and sorted the rest of the groceries, I considered how best to start The Big Conversation, but I kept getting distracted.
The sound of water splashing against the shower tiles floated through the half-open bathroom door, mingled with Webb’s soft, unconscious sighs as his muscles relaxed beneath the spray.
It didn’t help that I could picture what was happening in the bathroom exactly—Webb’s tan skin glistening, the water turning his long, dark eyelashes into spikes, his muscles flexing as he soaped himself everywhere.
I bit my lip and flushed, instantly aroused. Meanwhile, a voice in my head that I didn’t recognize said, If you want to feel close to your husband, Luke… what the fuck are you doing all the way out here?
The voice made a damn good point .
Already half-hard, I stripped my shirt off and padded toward the bathroom.
Webb stood facing the spray, much the way I’d imagined him.
His chin was tipped to his chest, his eyes closed, his hands braced on the wall, as water coursed down his spine and over the firm curve of his ass.
Steam curled around every bump and ridge of muscle, from the sharp cut of his biceps to the narrow taper of his waist.
He was so fucking strong, this husband of mine. So used to carrying things—whether it was sheep or groceries, the weight of his family’s needs or his own fears—on those broad shoulders. But the man needed to remember that he didn’t need to carry things on his own. Not while I was around.
As I watched, Webb arched his back, stretching his muscles, and let out a long, low groan. His fingers flexed against the wall, including the one with the simple titanium wedding band that matched my own, and just like that, my mouth went dry, and my cock filled.
It hit me in the gut then that this man was mine . Mine to touch. Mine to rely on. Mine to protect. Mine to love, even—or especially —when he was terrified and putting roadblocks between us.
I stepped into the room, quietly stripping off the rest of my clothes as I went, leaving a trail like breadcrumbs across the black-and-white tiles.
Webb startled and turned as he heard me approach, but when I opened the glass door and stepped into the shower with him, his expression sharpened to something that made anticipation curl in my belly. My knees went weak… so I dropped to them.
He gasped in surprise, quickly positioning himself so that his big body blocked most of the shower spray, and I smiled softly. Then I wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and leaned in, nuzzling my face into his hip, dragging my nose along his length, just breathing him in .