Page 20 of Only for Tonight (Only For #1)

sixteen

Ariella

“A riella Weber,” I answer the phone without looking at it since I’m in the middle of reading an email.

“Ariella Weber.” His voice makes me smile. “It’s Jaxon Stevenson.”

“Who?” I joke with him. “I’ve never heard of him,” I continue the joke, “I think you got the wrong number. Bye.” I sing out the last word almost pressing the red button.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, or else I am throwing one of your coupons away,” he snaps.

“I don’t even have a coupon,” I mention to him. It’s been a day since I’ve been home, a day since we’ve spoken on the phone about five times. Something I thought I would find annoying but then looking at the time, wondering what he was doing at that same moment.

“Pretty sure you had a suck-Jaxon’s-cock coupon ready to redeem,” he retorts, and I lean back and full-on belly laugh.

“I didn’t have that coupon to begin with. The only one that would benefit from that would be you.”

“Now that’s a lie,” he denies. “You love it as much as I do.”

“Pretty sure you love it more than I do,” I mumble, though I thoroughly enjoy it if I’m being honest. But that is only because of how much he enjoys it.

“You might be right.” He gives me a soft chuckle. “What are you doing?”

“About to meet with the president. Go over world peace.” I lean back in my chair, putting my hand on my stomach, something I’ve been doing more and more without even knowing it. “You?”

“Just got up from my nap,” he tells me. “I have to be downstairs in twenty minutes.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“Because I wanted to hear your voice,” he answers softly and I close my eyes.

“Okay, fine, I have a coupon to redeem.”

“Ohh,” he says with cheer, “what type of coupon?”

“A give-Jaxon-a-hug coupon,” I state and he groans, “while straddling him.”

“Now that's what I’m talking about,” he states, making me silently laugh. “Naked?” he asks me. “I approve, I’ll add it to our list.”

“We have a list?”

“We do,” he confirms. “It’s mostly just stuff I thought about and added, but now I’ll put your stuff down with mine.”

“What is on this list?” I ask him, moving my chair side to side.

“It’s better if I tell you when we are in front of each other. So we can do what is on the list. It’s called multitasking.” He chuckles using my words on me, thinking he’s very clever.

“Of course,” I deadpan, “naked, obviously.”

“Now you’re getting it,” he jokes with me. “What are you doing the rest of the day?”

“My parents are in town,” I tell him. “They called me this afternoon to tell me they are bringing me dinner and to not make any plans.”

“That sounds like fun; wish I was there.”

“Well, then, that would be another conversation I don’t think we are ready for.”

“Ari,” he says my nickname, “it’s going to have to come out eventually.”

“Why don’t we wait until we’re over the three-month thing?”

“What three-month thing?” he asks me and I hear him moving around on his side of the phone.

“Well, you can miscarry at any point before the three-month mark. Usually happens early on or in the tenth week of pregnancy.”

“Who said this?” he snaps out.

“It’s in the baby book I’m reading,” I tell him.

“Does travelling—” he starts to say and then stops. “Travelling, is it safe?”

“I actually looked it up this morning.” I exhale as I turn my chair to look out the windows. “It says there really isn’t anything that can cause me to miscarry if I’m travelling. They say I might get more nauseated, which has now kicked up tenfold.”

“I asked you this morning how you were feeling, and you told me fine.” His voice is soft.

“I was feeling fine, it comes and goes. Usually passes within an hour or so, but today”—I sigh—“it has been the worst.”

“I hate that I’m not there,” he says and I close my eyes. “I’m already not there half the time because of the team travelling, and then when I am home, I want the two of you to be there. I hate that I’m so far away from you.”

“Me too. I got up this morning and I had to make sure both my breasts were still there.” I try and change the morbid conversation about miscarriage. “I thought for sure one would have run away.” He now laughs out.

“How do you do that?” he asks, exhaling.

“What?”

“Make me freak out one second and then completely calm me the next.” His voice is low and rumbly and all I can think about is hugging him.

“It’s a gift,” I try to joke and I know that he’ll just worry. “Do you know how big the baby is right now?”

“No fucking clue. I don’t think I’ve ever been around any pregnant women who I cared about.”

“It’s the size of a raspberry,” I inform him, “that is how small the baby is.” I hold out my own hand and do a small circle. “By next week the size will be double. Also, it looks like a blob.”

“Can you send me the name of the book you are reading? So I can get my own copy.”

“I’ll bring mine with me and we can read it together,” I tell him. “Now you have to go to work and be a superstar and I have to go and eat some more saltines and drink some ginger ale.”

“We’re leaving right after the game. It’ll be late, so I’ll only call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I reply, a little disappointed, “have a good game.”

“I will. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” I tease him, “I have to check my schedule and see if I can pencil you in.” When he doesn’t say anything, I cave. “Okay, fine, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I agree, but neither of us hangs up. “You going to hang up anytime soon?”

“I really want to hug you right now,” he repeats softly and I blink the lone tear away, “and then maybe make out with you.”

“And cop a feel,” I add in, making him laugh.

“Definitely copping a feel,” he assures me and I hear a knock at his door. “I got to go.”

“Finally,” I sing out the word. “I’ve been trying to get you off the phone for the last five minutes.”

“Book your flight,” he reminds me, “and send me the information.”

“Don’t you have to go?”

“Later.” He disconnects the phone and all I can do is stare at it.

“What the hell is happening right now?” I ask the phone.

“Are you really going to move across the country for him?” I ask myself.

“You aren’t doing it for him,” I correct myself.

“You are doing it for the baby also.” I put my hand on my stomach.

“I mean you work from home anyway and there are days that you don’t even leave your apartment.

” I tap my belly. “Besides, if he could move, he would without even a second thought.” I smile at that, knowing that he would literally move without even blinking an eye.

“And ever since you’ve been back home,” I sigh out, “you’ve been lonely without him.

” I’m about to say something else to myself when I hear the doorbell ringing.

Smiling when I get to the door and seeing it’s my parents, I open the door. “There she is,” my mother coos and stops smiling. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, why?” I ask. She slowly comes into the apartment, her hands going to my shoulders as she searches my eyes.

“You look ill,” she declares, looking back over at my father. “Doesn’t she look ill?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “She looks fine,” my father says. “Now, are you going to hug her, or am I?”

“She doesn’t look fine,” my mother hisses at him and then puts her hand to my forehead. “She’s not hot.”

“That’s because she’s fine,” he repeats, leaning in front of her and kissing my cheek. “Hey, baby girl.” He hugs me with my mother in the middle of the hug. “My two girls.”

“Dad, you’re squishing me”—my stomach lurches—“and I have to pee.” I make up the excuse as I run away from them and close the door, Inhaling through my nose and out through my mouth.

“Don’t do this.” I put my hand on my stomach.

“Not today.” I turn on the water faucet, wetting my hand and then putting it on the back of my neck.

“Especially not today, you are going to have to tough it out until they leave if you are going to have me throw up.” I look down at my stomach in the mirror. “Do we have a deal?”

I wait a couple of minutes before I go back out there, finding my father sitting on the couch with my mother in the kitchen. “Make yourselves at home.”

“She’s funny,” my father says. “We ordered pizza.” He turns on Sports Center . “How come you don’t have the hockey network?”

“Because I don’t watch hockey,” I tell him.

“Big game tonight,” he mumbles, taking out his phone and then putting it to his ear.

“Yeah, how do I sign into my account at your sister’s house so I can watch the hockey network?

” he asks. “What do you mean I can’t? It’s my account,” he grunts.

“Stone is playing Jaxon tonight.” He then looks at me.

“You have some cable or something? I can log in online and mirror it.”

“All this for a hockey game,” I mutter, trying not to let them see that just the mention of Jaxon perks me up and I’m pretty sure my cheeks get pink.

Heading to my office, I grab my laptop and bring it to the living room. “Here.” I hand it to him.

“Do you have a HDMI cord?”

“Cable?” I ask him and he glares.

“Whatever it’s called,” he retorts and I point to the television. He gets on FaceTime, and thirty minutes later, while I’m sitting at the island listening to my mother talk about the holidays this year as I sip my ginger ale, my father finally gets the television to work.

“Yes,” he hisses, “it’s working.”

“Look.” He points to the television screen and we see a team bus pull into the arena.

The door opens and then I swear my breath gets caught when I see him walking off the bus, wearing a blue suit, white shirt, and no tie.

In his hand is a white cup of coffee, I think.

He looks at the camera for a second and then looks away. “There’s Jaxon,” my father announces.

“Thanks for letting me know.” I smile big at him while he side-eyes me. “You act like I don’t know him. I know it’s Jaxon.”

“So much drama with him lately,” my mother mentions and I whip my head to look at her.