“You’re not grotesque. You actually . . .” I study her. “You’re actually quite pretty in the morning.”
She stops dabbing her eyes, and they laser in on me. “Am I not pretty at night?”
Oh, shit.
“What? No, you are. You’re very pretty at night.”
She dabs her eyes again. “But you said only in the morning.”
Christ. Sweat trickles down my back. Reel it in, Hornsby.
“Well, that’s because not everyone can wake up as beautiful as you, especially after dry-heaving for as long as you do. A head in a toilet doesn’t scream beauty, but wow, you really show up with the prettiness . . . all the time. All the time pretty.”
There, that should do it.
“Is that a compliment?”
Uh, it was supposed to be.
Clearly, it was not a satisfactory one.
“I assumed it was, but judging by the disgusted sneer on your face, I’m going to say you didn’t take it that way. Okay, how about this. In case there is any kernel of doubt in your mind, I think you look nice, very pretty. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, you’re always pretty. I don’t think you’re the least bit grotesque, or anything you do is grotesque. Not to mention, everyone farts, it’s a natural thing that occurs, and if you didn’t fart, well, that would be weird and grotesque. So congrats on what you called the flatus. Well done.” I offer her a thumbs up. “Now, I hope you join me for breakfast. I got cinnamon buns, and I know how much you like them.”
She glances at the table and then back at me, and once again, her eyes well up and tears leak down her cheeks. Please let those be happy tears. I’m clenching my ass cheeks so hard, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. “I’m sorry.” She wipes at her eyes. Oh, thank fuck. “Things are just weird for me right now. And I don’t know how to control my emotions.”
Well, at least she recognizes that.
“It’s okay. No need to apologize for anything.” I walk over to the table, and I pull a chair out for her. “Take a seat, and I’ll get you a drink. Do you want coffee or tea?” The faster we can move past the circle of hell we just experienced, the better.
“Water is fine.” She sits down and scoots her chair in. I quickly fill up a glass for her and then set it in front of her before taking a seat.
“I wish these were from The Denver Biscuit Company,” I say, “but they will have to do for now. They’re pretty good. Gooey in the middle, which is all that matters.”
She pulls her cinnamon bun apart with her fingers and lifts a chunk to her mouth before taking a bite. Her eyes slowly close, and she leans back in her chair while moaning. “These are so good.”
Well . . . that’s, uh . . . that’s a sight.
The moaning.
The relaxed position.
It’s almost as if she just had an orgasm right in front of me, but I had nothing to do with it other than purchasing the cinnamon bun.
And I hate to sound like a fucking creep, because that’s how it’s going to come off, but hearing her moan like that takes me back to my birthday, to that night, the way she writhed on top of me right before I made us switch positions.
It’s hard not to think about that night, especially when I can honestly say it’s the best I’ve ever had.
And I don’t know if it’s because I’d wanted her for so long, or if it was because it was my birthday . . . or if it was because it was just her, but either way, sitting across from her in that buttoned-up robe outfit, I find myself wanting her all over again.
“Are you going to eat your cinnamon bun?” she asks, pulling me out of my reverie.
“Oh yeah, uh-huh,” I say as I dive into the bun with my fork. “So what are your plans for today?”
“Reading probably,” she answers.
“Cool. What are you reading?”
“A pregnancy book. You know, just so I know what to expect.”
“Oh, yeah. Do you want me to read it too?”
She vehemently shakes her head. “I’d rather you not know what’s happening to my body. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to keep that a secret.”
“It might help me better understand moments like we had this morning.”
She bites down on her cinnamon bun, leaving a dollop of icing on her finger that she licks off. Like the goddamn pervert that I am, I watch her intensely as she drags her tongue over her finger, envisioning what it would be like if it was my cock instead.
“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes,” she says. “The first trimester, I’m going to be an emotional wreck. I won’t be able to control any of my hormones, so if I’m laughing hysterically one moment and then crying my heart out the next, just know, it’s the little alien baby inside me that’s controlling my every move.” I chuckle at that. “And I’m also supposed to not feel great during the first trimester, which, check, I’ve got that covered.” She makes a check mark in the air. “In addition, I’m supposed to experience severe heartburn, feel incredibly bloaty, and as you might have guessed it from this morning, I’ll be quite farty. So that will be an utter joy for you . . . and me.”