“No. I loved him. I loved him in a comforting sort of way, the way that he would stay in my heart forever. If I hadn’t met Brock and hadn’t experienced the firestorm that it is to love him, maybe he would’ve been it. But you can’t live your life on what ifs.” I snuggled into Belle, inhaling her sweet little baby smell.
Gwen watched me. “No, you can’t. You’re happy though.”
I nodded, catching Brock’s gaze from across the pool. He had an intense look on his face, watching me holding Belle. Uh uh. He was not getting any ideas.
“Yeah.”
We sat in a comfortable silence.
The party was a success, and we had bundled a drunken Gwen and a sleeping Belle in with Cade as they were the last guests to leave. For once I didn’t over indulge in the alcohol. No, I wasn’t pregnant. I was happy enough to thrive off the atmosphere of being surrounded by love.
Ugh, I was getting sappy as shit and I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I snuggled next to Brock after he had made me a very happy girl. Multiple orgasms happy.
He stroked my shoulder absently and I basked in the moment of domestic coupledom. Well, maybe I basked in the afterglow of freaking amazing sex, but it was basically the same thing.
“You want kids, Sparky?” he asked finally, breaking the silence and with a boom my bubble of happiness burst. I knew that look by the pool would come back and bite me in the ass.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly and his hand stopped stroking. He twisted me so I was lying on top of him and our eyes could meet. He scrutinized me.
“You don’t know?”
“I’m twenty-freaking-five, Brock. I like my life. I like my boobs and I do not want them to sag. I like my clothes and I do not want to have them covered in spit up.”
Brock raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously saying you don’t want kids because of your tits and your clothes?” His tone was judgmental.
I tried another tactic. “Do you like my vagina, Brock?” I asked.
He was silent for a moment. “Is that a trick question?”
“No, it is not a trick question. I assume you do like my vagina—I’m relatively fond of it too. I am not fond of the idea of a baby hurtling out of it and messing things up,” I told him plainly.
He watched me like he didn’t know what to make of my comment. “So you don’t want kids.” The flat tone of his voice worried me.
“Do you?” I countered.
His hands tightened around my waist. “Fuck yeah, I do.”
The words left hanging were the “with you” part. I ran my fingertips across his chest.
“Can we not just enjoy being us without moving at warp speed like Gwen and Cade? They’re happy and they love Belle, but I don’t want a baby coming along just yet. We can revisit this at a later date, if we don’t murder each other by living in such close proximity. My ovaries aren’t going to shrivel up any time soon, ‘kay?”
I hoped he would be happy to end this conversation. We had just moved in together after two weeks of actually being a normal functioning couple. Talking kids was a little too much for me, especially when I didn’t even know if I wanted them.
Brock was silent for a moment as if contemplating this. He kissed my head lightly and tucked me into his side.
“Okay, babe, I get you. The subject’s shelved.”
I relaxed. Hopefully that was the last I was going to hear on that subject for a few months at least.
The next day I was humming along contentedly while packing groceries in the back of my car, feeling excited at the sheer amount of food in those bags I had deprived myself for years. I wasn’t going to be munching down twenty Big Macs a day or anything, but maybe I wouldn’t avoid pasta like I avoided Ugg boots.
I was distracted thinking about pasta and maybe even cheese, so I didn’t notice someone had approached me.
“You’re looking well, Miss Abrams,” a cultured voice stated politely from behind me.
Oh shit. Not again.
I whirled around to face Clark, my only weapon a jar of pasta sauce. I contemplated how effective throwing it at his head would be. My eyes darted around the quiet parking lot; I supposed I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have a friendly law enforcement officer stroll by. Crap.
“What the fuck do you want?” I hissed angrily.
This was not okay. Could I not enjoy something as mundane as a trip to the grocery store without getting stalked by my ex-kidnapper?
He held his manicured hands up to placate me. “I’m not here to hurt you, Miss Abrams, nor do I intend to disrupt your life any more than I have to,” he stated calmly.
I snorted, gripping the pasta jar. “Yeah, right. I’m going to believe a sociopath who kidnapped and tortured me when he assures me I’m safe. Do I look like I’m on crack?” I asked sarcastically, ignoring the fear curling in my stomach.
Clark regarded me. “I do regret that course of action more than you know, considering I lost ten of my men.” He didn’t seem too broken up about it.
“Sorry, should I have sent you condolence flowers?” I spat, feeling momentarily stunned at how many guys the Sons had managed to off.
Clark sighed. “As much as I enjoy this banter, Miss Abrams, I’m pressed for time. I’d like for you to do something for me.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. Maybe this guy was on crack.
“Are you suffering from syphilis?” I asked seriously.
A chink in Clark’s emotionless façade showed when he looked visibly confused. “I’m not sure I follow the reason for asking such a question.”
“Well, insanity is a common symptom of the disease. Just ask Henry the Eighth. I’m thinking that waltzing up to me while I’m doing my grocery shopping, treating me like a business acquaintance and asking me a favor after detaining and nearly killing me is nothing short of insanity,” I explained.