Despite her best intentions, she felt herself softening toward him. Felt herself wondering if maybe he would stick around for a while—for the baby, of course, not for her.
But after everything she’d been through, after all the people she’d had to tell goodbye over the years, even thinking he might stay for the baby felt like a weakness. More, it felt like a betrayal.
And so she found the will to step back.
Found the will to whisper a soft good-night.
And somehow she even found the will to close the door in Nic’s very handsome, very sexy, very sweet face.
By Sunday, Desi still wasn’t over her moment of weakness. In fact, she’d spent the better part of the week berating herself for it even as she felt herself falling a little more under Nic’s spell with each day that passed.
He’d called her twice a day, every day, just to check on her. He had a small basket of fresh fruit delivered to her doorstep each morning and a healthy, delicious dinner delivered each night. He even drove up from San Diego one day to meet her for lunch so he could check on her and the baby. And through it all, he had never voiced a word of dissension at the increasingly ridiculous rules she’d insisted on making up for their living arrangement.
The guy definitely had his eye on the endgame, and that wasn’t going to do. Not when he was being so nice about it. And not when she felt as if she was one small step away from getting sucked into a vortex of need and want and emotional attachment.
Wasn’t going to happen.
Which was why, on this fine Sunday morning in July, she stood in the middle of her very small kitchen watching her neighbor Serena direct her burly boyfriend and brother, telling them where in Desi’s apartment they should put the French provincial sofa they were currently carrying. Not that it really mattered. The thing would dominate the room wherever they put it.
How could it not? It was huge and ugly and the most atrocious shade of hot pink she had ever seen. It was also curved and hard as a rock and would be absolutely miserable for Nic to sleep on. One night on the thing and his back would never be the same.
At another time, she might feel badly about conspiring to torture Nic while he was being so determinedly supportive, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He was moving in later that afternoon, and with the way her stupid pregnancy hormones were all out of whack, she didn’t trust herself not to jump him. Or much worse, fall for him.
Which was why she’d begged Serena to let her borrow her friend’s most prized piece of furniture. It would cost Desi a couple of hundred bucks and an entire day spent at the spa, but at this point, that seemed a small price to pay. Nic had to go and he had to go fast.
She would make those words her mantra and use them every time she felt her resolve weakening. Which lately seemed to be every time she saw Nic or heard his voice on the phone or even thought about him—which she was doing more and more lately.
Stupid pregnancy hormones.
By the time Nic showed up at her door with two suitcases and a laptop case filled with electronics, she was a wreck. Especially since she hadn’t had anything to do but sit around and wait for him to appear.
Normally she spent Sunday mornings cleaning her ap
artment, but a cleaning service had shown up before she’d left for work on Thursday. When she’d tried to turn them away, thinking they’d gotten the apartment number wrong, they’d assured her that Nic had sent them. And that they’d be back every week to make sure her apartment was “spick-and-span.” Their words, not hers.
When she’d tried to talk to Nic about it, to tell him she didn’t need or want him to pay for a cleaning service, he’d told her it wasn’t for her, it was for him. He was a total pig, he claimed, and he needed someone to clean up after him.
The fact that she could hear the laughter in his voice as he said it—and called him on it—didn’t make him change his story. That was when she’d figured out what she’d only suspected when she’d gone home with him all those weeks ago—that she really had met her match.
“I cleared out half the closet for you,” she told him as he made his way into the apartment. “I figured you could use that chest for stuff you didn’t want to hang up.” She pointed at the arts and crafts–style highboy she had found at a garage sale right out of college. She’d brought it home, stripped it and painted it a bright sunshiny yellow that she loved—and that, it turned out, clashed horribly with the hot pink French provincial sofa that now dominated her living area.
Normally she used the chest to hold her books, but for now they were in boxes under her bed. If she played her cards right, the books would be back where they belonged by Wednesday. Maybe sooner, if that couch was as uncomfortable to stretch out on as she imagined it would be.
“Thanks,” he said with a smile that was way too sexy for her peace of mind. “I really appreciate that.”
Guilt slithered through her, made her palms sweat and her stomach swirl. But she shoved it back down, hard. Nic had to go and he had to go now. She repeated her mantra like the lifeline it was.
“Do you need help unpacking?” she asked, reaching for one of his suitcases.
“I’ve got it.” He held the bag away from her. “Why don’t you sit down and rest while I empty these suitcases, and then I’ll take you to lunch.”
“I’m pregnant, Nic, not an invalid.”
“True, but I am neither pregnant nor an invalid, so I beat you.” He pointed to the monstrosity of a sofa without so much as batting an eye. “Now, sit.”
She did her best not to cringe. Why, oh why, had she not considered the fact that he would expect her to sit on that couch? Which wasn’t as bad as lying on it, obviously, but was still not good.
“I actually prefer the bar stools,” she said, gesturing to the three chairs that lined the overhanging counter on the outside edge of her kitchen.