Didn't Expect You (Against All Odds #2) - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,78
conference call with Pierce. This is part of our routine, at least until we have a structure, more employees, and less fires to extinguish.
We are officially establishing the law firm in Portland. He doubts he’ll be moving back to Colorado. Nate is hoping that by Thanksgiving, I will just work from Seattle—which is only an hour flight from the offices.
Nate is having a contractor build me a space next to his home office. I’m not sure what he’s doing, or more like why he is doing it. As I explained to him several times, once I’m done with the project in New York, I’m heading back to Colorado.
I don’t think he’s listening. He swears I’m his permanent roommate.
Maybe he feels alone in that big house and he’s trying to fill it with strays. Soon, I have to sit down with him and explain to him that I can’t be a placeholder to stay around while he’s waiting for the next best thing.
The second week isn’t that much different. We wake up early, and I drink whatever smoothie is on the menu. We head out for a thirty-minute run. He goes to the gym while I shower, and when I’m ready to leave for the office there’s a small breakfast waiting for me.
Now Saturday morning is the day we sleep in—and by that I mean wake up at eight.
Today isn’t much different from every single morning. I wake up next to Nate. I blame this sleeping non-arrangement on the blueberry demon. If I didn’t have morning sickness, I wouldn’t be where I am right now.
We should stop this insanity. It’s almost like an unspoken understanding between us. The entire routine is just a pretend game where we say goodnight and head to bed—in separate rooms. But at some point during the night, morning sickness hits me. Brock barks like a possessed dog. Nate swoops inside my bathroom to hold my hair, make sure I’m all right, and holds me after I clean myself.
I don’t understand why he has to hug me for a long period of time after I’m done brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth, but I don’t complain because being in his arms is almost magical. After the second time I get sick during the night, Nate stays with me in my bed. Because, what’s the point of going to his bed when he’ll have to come back running a couple more times?
Now, the huge problem I encounter happens the next morning when I wake up next to Nate. His arms are around me, lips against my bare shoulder, and his morning wood pushing against my ass.
Every day, I have to remind myself that this doesn’t mean anything. Sure, this is what any guy would do if he sleeps with a woman. Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know because the last time I had a steady relationship was back in grad school and we slept naked most of the time.
I glance over at Nate whose long lashes are shut, and his breathing is steady. His torso is bare, and God if I don’t want to trace his tattoos, but I stop myself from doing so many things. Soon, this morning sickness will be over, and I won’t have to wake up reminding myself that he’s just a friend. I won’t have to control the need to run my lips along his rough stubble. I won’t have to have a long chat with my heart while I shower about being safe.
We don’t mean anything to each other. And most importantly, I have to pretend that I don’t like the feel of him sleeping next to me. So, like I do every morning, I wiggle myself out of his embrace, head to the bathroom, and take a shower.
Dressed in one of the cute sundresses I got from the last shopping spree, I step outside the walk-in closet and find him sitting on the bed looking at the nightstand where I have the framed picture of my Sweet Bun.
“According to the sonogram, today is week twelve. If I’m lucky I should stop puking right about now,” I say excitedly.
“If that baby is as stubborn as her mama, it won’t happen until she feels like it,” he jokes.
His raspy voice, that just woke up rustled hair and sleepy eyes leave me speechless, so I resort to the childish stick out my tongue gesture.
“You should just move into my bedroom. My bed is more comfortable,” he suggests, and I laugh.