“Mama, our new house is big.”
Pax chuckles at her troubled expression. “Is that a problem, Zu?”
She shakes her head. “No, daddy. I just… I just… can I have a puppy now?”
“You little opportunist,” Pax smiles. “We’ll see.”
“You shouldn’t be too surprised,” I tell him. “She’s your daughter, through and through.”
He grins at me over his water glass.
After dinner, we have our dessert in the main family room. Natasha seems troubled as she brings us the tray with three pie plates.
“Mr. Alexander never ate in here,” she tells us. “This rug was shipped from Turkey. It’s very expensive.”
Pax’s head snaps up, and he takes a plate from her.
“Natasha, I assume you know about Mr. Alexander’s will… how we have to employ you for five years?”
Natasha stands up straight. “Yes, sir.”
“That doesn’t entail you telling me or my wife what to do. That isn’t in your job description. I don’t know how your relationship with my grandfather went, but our relationship with you will not be that way.”
Natasha looks sheepish, and I almost feel sorry for her, even though her attitude all day has been annoying.
“This is our home now,” Pax continues. “We will treat it as a home, not a museum. I’ll thank you to not make us feel uncomfortable about that.”
Natasha nods reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”
She starts to leave.
“You will be employed here for five years,” Pax tells her. “But we aren’t required to keep you in your current position.”
Natasha freezes, her shoulders tight. She turns.
“Sir?”
“You are the housekeeper. You do not tell my wife and I how to live. If you do, we’ll find another position for you.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Pax relaxes. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, Natasha. But my first priority is my wife. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable here. She’s given up a lot to be with me.”
I startle. “Pax,” I start to say. He glances at me.
“You have,” he tells me. “You didn’t want to come here. I know that. But you did it because you love me. This is your home. Do what you want with it. If you want to burn every damn piece of furniture in it and start over, you can.”
Natasha gasps and I rush to reassure her.
“I’m not burning things, Natasha. In fact, if I decide I don’t want something, I’ll offer it to you.”
She exhales. “Thank you, m’am, although you don’t have to do that.”
“You care about this house,” I point out. “That’s commendable. Thank you.”
She nods and she’s gone and I stare at my husband.
“Holy shit, Pax.”
He shrugs. “It needed to be said.”
I shake my head and snuggle into my husband’s shoulder. “I love you.”
He glances down at me. “I know.”
We watch Zuzu inhale her pie and dance around the room, spinning and twirling, because it’s as big as a gymnasium.
“Should I put her to bed?” Pax asks me. “It’s getting late.”
He’s hopeful, and I know why. I grin.
“Yeah. Let’s do it on our way to bed.”
She does down surprisingly fast, and snuggles into her bed. Hers was the first room I had repainted. It is a pale blue in here now, her favorite color and it’s very soothing. Tomorrow, I’m painting ivy vines twisting around her walls. I want to turn it into a “secret garden” themed room. She’ll love it.
Our master suite is right down the hall, through a set of double doors.
It was recently stripped of wall-paper and repainted bone-white. It’s got airy curtains, floor to ceiling, and we have a new bed. It’s a massive wooden piece and it faces a large fireplace.
Classic, slightly masculine. I want Pax to be able to unwind in here.
After we brush our teeth and settle into bed, I cuddle against my husband.
“I love that you still sleep naked,” he murmurs into my ear. He runs his large hand over my hip, up my ribcage. His fingers are careful, like I’m made of glass.
“Lord, I want to be in you,” he says, his voice husky.
I turn, pressing into him. “So be in me.”
He groans. “No. I want to wait. Until after the first trimester.”
I startle, even though that’s only a week away.
“You think you’ll hurt me?”
“I don’t want to take any chances,” he says and he’s almost sheepish. “I want you, Mi. Don’t doubt that.”
He’s rock hard against my leg, so I don’t question his desire.
“Fine,” I say finally. “You don’t have to be in me. However… you can’t tell me what to do, so….”
I climb up and over him, kneeling, and take him in my mouth.
“Son of a bitch,” he bleats, and he tries to pull me off. “That’s not fair to you, Mi. You don’t have to.”
I pause. “I want to. I love you, Pax.”
I slide him in and out, my fingers around his balls, clenching softly, then with more pressure. My husband’s breathing hitches, and hitches.
“Jesus,” he finally manages to say, and his grasp is tight on my ass. “I’m gonna cum, babe.”
He pulls away from me and comes on his own belly, and his head drops back on the pillow.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says weakly.
I grin.
“There’s no better way to go,” I offer.
He grins, his eyes still closed. “True.”
He cleans up with a tissue, and we settle in for sleep. He drifts off within minutes, but I’m awake a long time.
This house is old, and the noises it makes are new to me. It will take me a while to get used to them, to know what is normal and what is not.
I lay my hand on my belly. In a couple of weeks, I should be able to feel the baby move. I smile at that, and I’m almost… almost… asleep when Pax moans next to me.
He writhes and turns and moans, and then finally, he wakes up with a loud yelp, sitting straight up in bed.
“Babe?” I ask, stroking his back. “You’re ok. You’re ok. Was it a nightmare?”
He’s rubbing his knee absently and he nods. “Yeah. I guess it was.”
“Does your knee hurt?” He’s been limping from time to time, and it’s worried me.
“A little. It’s nothing to worry about.”
I do worry though, and he knows it. He opens his arms to me, and I settle in against him, listening to his strong heart beat until I finally fall asleep.
9
Chapter Eight
Pax
Sweet Jesus, the pain.
My knee sends spirals of vise-like pain up into my leg, and it’s enough to take my breath away.
I’d gone to the doctor today, and heard the verdict. I need knee-surgery. The ligaments and tendons around my knee were torn badly in the accident, frayed beyond the ability to mend themselves. But I’m not putting Mila through the stress of that. Not until after she’s past the point of possible miscarriage.
I’ll deal with the pain for a couple more weeks. I’m no pussy.
I lay still until her breathing is deep and even, and she begins snoring in her cute little snorts. I smile in the dark, and then carefully, carefully, ease out of her embrace. She stirs a little, and I freeze on the edge of the bed. She settles back in without waking up. In her sleep, she reaches out for me, and I push my pillow toward her. She grabs it and pulls it to her chest. I smile and slip out of the room.
I feel like a wounded soldier as I limp down the long hall toward my study and switch on a lamp.
Once my grandfather’s, it is a huge room with a massive fireplace and wood-paneled walls. It’s a gentleman’s room, and the irony as I sit behind the desk is not lost on me.
I’m no gentleman. At least, not the kind this room was intended
for.
This room was built back when men retired after dinner with scotch and cigars while the women huddled together and did cross-stich.
That’s so not Mila and me.
I stretch my leg out and rub at the knee.
Rubbing it doesn’t help much, but it makes me think I’m doing something for it.
“Mr. Tate?”
I look up to find Natasha in the doorway, clad in a floor-length robe.
“Is everything ok? I saw your light.”
Her hair is down now, and it makes her seem less stern, more her age.
“Everything is fine,” I assure her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She glances at my hand rubbing my knee. “Can I get your pain pills for you?”
I’ve been trying not to take them, but Lord. Pain is pain.
“Ok. Thank you.”
She disappears, and comes back in a few minutes with a glass of water and two pills.
She pours them into my hand and watches me as I knock them back.
“Acknowledging pain isn’t a weakness,” she tells me quietly.
“I know that,” I say, more sharply than I intended. “Sorry.”
“Do you, though?” she wonders. “Because I see you trying to hide it.”
“My wife has enough to worry about,” I say stiffly. “She doesn’t need to worry about this, too.”
Natasha stares at me doubtfully. “I’m pretty sure she’d want to know.”
I know she would. But it’s not what is best for her. Not yet.
“You don’t understand,” I say, and I don’t know why I’m explaining. “Mila had a miscarriage last time. I just want to keep her stress-free for the next couple of weeks until she’s out of the danger. Most people miscarry in the first twelve weeks, if they’re going to miscarry.”
“You’re sweet to worry,” Natasha says finally. “I’ll help you however you want me to help.”
I didn’t ask her to help.
“If you can just make sure she rests,” I tell her. “When I’m at work. She has a tendency to do too much.”
Natasha nods. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Very well. I’ll keep this between us.”
I didn’t ask her to.
“As you wish.”
She nods and she’s gone.
I’m alone again in my study, and the pain pills have begun to kick in. They’re taking the edge off, at least. I can breathe around the pain now.
I answer a couple of e-mails, waiting to see if I get even more relief as time passes. I don’t.
With a sigh, I eye my grandfather’s bar on the other side of the room. A throw-back to times lost, it’s a full-bar.
Without giving myself a moment to second-guess, I cross the room, pour a couple fingers of scotch, and gulp it down.
That should help.
And it does. Within minutes, the pain has dulled. Hopefully, enough to sleep. I make my way quietly back to my bedroom, slip in next to Mila, and drift off to sleep.
* * *
“Mr. Tate, your two o’clock is here.”
Sasha’s voice is loud on my phone’s intercom. It snaps me awake, because I’d almost dozed off. Sleeping only a couple of hours because of pain sucks balls.
“Thank you, Sasha,” I answer, punching at the button. “Send them in.”
I don’t even know who my two o’clock is. That’s how dim-witted I feel today. I rub at my eyes, and then rub at my knee.
I’m a fucking mess.
“Dude, you look like shit.”
Gabe strides in, with Brand on his heels. They are both dressed in slacks and button-up shirts.
“You’re my two o’clock?” I roll my eyes and stand up. “I thought it was a real meeting.”
Gabe stares at me indignantly. “We are a real meeting. We have fourth quarter profit and loss statements to go over with you.”
“Snore,” I tell him.
“Why do you look like shit?” Brand asks me curiously, as he sets his briefcase down on my conference table in the corner.
“I didn’t realize that I do.”
“You do,” he assures me.
“You still hurtin’?” Gabe asks, his brow furrowed. “I’ve got the name of a damn good PT if you want it. He can get you straightened out.”
I sigh. “I apparently need surgery on my knee. I blew it out. But I don’t want to for a couple of weeks. I don’t want to upset Mila.”
Gabe lifts an eyebrow. “Mila is the most unflappable person I know.”
“She’s pregnant,” I tell them. “I don’t want to stress her out.”
“Dude,” Brand exclaims. “Congratulations!” They both slap me on the back, and I cringe because that pain ricochets down into my hips, straight into my knee. I grit my teeth and hide it though. Damned if I’ll show my pain to these two.
“Thanks,” I say instead.
“Ok. Well, how about this. We made money in the fourth quarter,” Gabe says. “A lot of it. We can send the specifics to Peter, if you want. But tonight, let’s go celebrate. Cancel your afternoon.”
Peter is the business advisor I inherited from my grandfather. I’ll gladly relegate paperwork to him.
I eye my calendar. There’s nothing on it for the rest of the day.
“Fine,” I tell them. “I’ve got til five o’clock.”
“That’s all we need,” Brand tells me.
We walk out of my office, and Sasha scrambles up. “I’ll have your car waiting for you,” she calls after me.
Gabe stops in his tracks. “Your car? As in, a car that you don’t drive yourself?”
“No need,” I tell Sasha. “I’ll ride with these yay-whos.”
They continue to rib me all the way to Brand’s truck.