Dedicated Ink (12 page)

She hardly had time to wonder what that meant before Sam turned his back on the woman, heading for the house.

She took one step forward, but he called something over his shoulder that stopped her in her tracks. The closer he got to the house, the angrier Abby could see his expression was.

The woman didn’t look happy, either. Glaring, she stood still on the sidewalk, her gaze trained on Sam until it veered toward the window.

It was the first time Abby had ever made eye contact with the woman. She’d only seen her from across the café the day before – Natalie had ordered the coffee. Even with a couple yards and a pane of glass between them, Abby could feel the woman’s anger, and something else… Surprise?

Whatever it was, it was gone, and the woman turned and stomped away.

“What was that all about?” Abby asked as Sam walked through the door.

His expression was dark – the darkest Abby had ever seen it. “That was Trish,” he said, only after he’d closed and locked the door. “My ex.”

Abby’s blood ran cold, and she could no longer feel the heat of the oven at her back. “What did she want?” She asked, although it seemed obvious – who wouldn’t want Sam?

He grimaced. “Money.”

She was surprised into several moments of silence. “Money?”

He nodded, pulling off his jacket and throwing it onto a chair.

“How could she think...”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I don’t get how she thinks. I don’t get how even she could work up the nerve to show her face here again.”

“I don’t know if this means anything, but I saw her yesterday – I just didn’t know who she was. She was working as a barista at the café inside the bookstore Natalie and I went to.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“She must’ve lost her old job, then – she used to work full-time as a receptionist in an insurance office.”

“So she came here to harass you for money?” Abby thought out loud. Any way she looked at it, even if Trish had lost her job, it was bizarre to think that she’d actually hoped Sam might be sympathetic. And what had happened to the man she’d left Sam for?

Sam shrugged, a motion that highlighted the tension in his shoulders. “Told you she was bad. I just … never wanted you to see.”

“It’s not your fault she has no sense of decency.”

“It’s my fault she showed up here. I’m the one who was with her in the first place. Jesus, I wish I could take it all back.”

“I might never have met you if you did.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t like thinking that I owe being with you to Trish in any way. Wish I’d done things right from the beginning.”

Abby’s heart sank a little deeper as she pulled a couple of dinner plates from a cabinet. What had Trish said to him, exactly, that had him fuming?

* * * * *

Abby’s Valentine’s Day plans had imploded into a total clusterfuck. Swearing, she dumped a plate of chicken and risotto into the sink, crammed it into the garbage disposal with a fork, turned on the faucet and flipped the switch on the wall.

The strangled gurgling that accompanied the dinner’s demise was only mildly satisfying. Still fuming, she disposed of the second plate in the same fashion, letting the disposal run until it was nothing more than a quiet
whir
, the white noise confirming that all evidence of her culinary efforts had been utterly destroyed.

Well, except for the giant mess spread over the counters and stove. Swearing again, she tore several paper towels from the roll above the sink and began scrubbing. Her biceps were aching before she was halfway done. “Fucking internet recipes,” she muttered, using her nails to work a particularly stubborn lump of burnt flour free.

Why did people even bother to take the time to upload horrible recipes to the internet? She’d scoured cooking sites for the perfect Valentine’s dinner recipe and had settled, after hours of deliberation, on something called In Love with Lemon Chicken for the main dish.

She’d followed the recipe to a T, down to the dash of curry – she’d had to make a special trip to the grocery store just to buy some of that. She’d had a big stupid grin on her face when she’d popped the chicken into the oven, but the poultry had morphed into something disgusting during the thirty-five minutes of baking time. When she’d pulled it from the rack, the two chicken breasts she’d labored over had been little more than gelatinous blobs, hunks of meat marinating in the pasty goo the coating had become.

The risotto she’d made as a side dish – the recipe had come from the same site as the lame lemon chicken – had turned out mediocre at best. Maybe she should’ve saved it, but she’d thrown it into the garbage disposal along with the chicken, sacrificing the gloopy rice mixture to her rage. Now all she had left of the dinner she’d planned was a salad and some rolls. The worst part was that she’d timed everything to be ready when Sam arrived home from work.

Sure enough, the sound of his key turning in the lock came as soon as she’d finished wiping the counter clean. The stovetop was still a mess, but there was no time to fix that. Turning with her huge belly splattered with flour and God knew what else, she felt the full weight of her failure descend upon her as he walked in.

His uniform looked perfect, even after a day of work. “Hey. Smells good in here.” He smiled as he looked around, as if expecting to find a feast spread out on the table or one of the countertops.

Abby marched over to the table, seized the two candles she’d lit only minutes ago, and tossed them into the sink, where dirty water and chicken-y residue put out the flames. Standing in the middle of the kitchen with her arms crossed over her filthy sweater, she had to look completely ridiculous. Unfortunately, frustration and hormones had whipped her temper into a fever pitch, and she was incapable of caring.

“Hey,” she managed to reply before firmly closing her mouth, refusing to let her lower lip quiver.

“So do I get to see this dinner you’ve been teasing me about all day?” He pulled off his boots, the picture of obliviousness.

Remembering that she’d texted him earlier that afternoon with a cute little message promising a special dinner and an even better dessert – not the kind you had in the kitchen – was the straw that broke the camel’s back. “Not unless you want to take apart the garbage disposal and look at whatever pile of mush is inside the plumbing.”

He looked at her like he didn’t understand.

“Dinner is ruined,” she clarified. “Either the recipes I used were total crap, or I fucked them up in some way I don’t even understand. God, we’re probably just lucky I didn’t burn the house down.” She wasn’t normally a terrible cook, and of all the days to totally ruin a dinner…

He had the grace to look thoughtful instead of disappointed, but his courtesy couldn’t take the edge off the anger she felt toward herself and whoever had posted that recipe.

She was seven months along now and her size, along with the increased strain on her body, had her at an all-time low, as far as productivity went. There was still no word from Red Harbor Publishing, and she really did spend most of her time at home reading, watching TV or starting sketches she rarely had the energy or the willpower to finish. This – the Valentine’s dinner and her plans for a perfect evening – had been one thing she’d been counting on being able to do for him, on being able to do right.

“There’s nothing left?” he asked.

“Nothing but a salad and some rolls.”

“Why don’t we eat that?”

“Because a salad and rolls make an appetizer, not a meal.”

“We can figure out what we’re going to do about dinner while we eat the salad. If we go out, we’ll probably have a long wait to be seated – this’ll be something to hold us over.”

Even though his suggestion was probably a concession to the fact that she was hungry at least every other hour, she retrieved the salad from the fridge and slid the rolls into the still-hot oven for a few minutes of warming. Handling food she’d made without feeling compelled to stuff it into the garbage disposal eased her ire just a little, until she found herself staring at an empty shelf in the refrigerator.

“There’s no salad dressing.”

“None?”

“No. I went to the store today, too. I can’t believe I didn’t think to make sure we had dressing for the salad.”

“Why don’t you go out and get some? I can take the rolls out of the oven when the timer goes off.”

“I…” She closed the refrigerator door more forcefully than she’d intended to, stifling a groan at the thought of making the trip to the store again, and all for a bottle of dressing for a salad that was all she had to offer in place of the big dinner she’d promised Sam. “I need to change clothes, first.”

Narrowly resisting the urge to stomp, she made her way back to the bedroom, aware how ridiculous her hormone-fueled thoughts were. If Sam wanted to eat the salad, the least she could do was go to the store for some dressing. Hell, she probably should’ve offered to do that as soon as she’d realized they were out. It was stupid to resent him for not offering to go, or at least come along.

She was pregnant, not dying. It wouldn’t kill her to make another trip to the store, even if her kitchen failures had utterly exhausted her. Still, she pulled her dirty clothes off and flung them at the hamper, not caring that they sent a fine powder of flour onto the carpet. Why had she thought she could get away with wearing her pretty, sparkling sweater all day, including while she cooked?

Donning one of the last clean maternity outfits she owned, she grabbed her purse and jacket and was out the door with a mumbled promise to be right back.

It was flurrying. A flake drifted down and into her eye, cold and wet. She blinked it away, refusing to acknowledge it just like she refused to acknowledge the pressure pooling behind her eyes, making them sting. She’d ruined everything – ruined her and Sam’s one and only chance to ever have a kid-free, romantic Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t even offered to accompany her to the store, and she couldn’t blame him.

He probably wanted a break from her and her hormones. Maybe he didn’t even want to eat the salad; maybe he just wanted her out of the house for twenty minutes. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there when she got back – maybe he’d go on his evening run, like he usually did. Maybe he wasn’t as okay with her spending so much time at home as he’d claimed a couple weeks ago.

The possibilities haunted her as she pulled into the nearest grocery store’s parking lot and walked through the snowflakes that fell in curtains, illuminated by the lot’s glaring industrial lights. Inside, she plucked a bottle each of Italian Vinaigrette, buttermilk ranch and French dressing from a shelf and headed for the register. By the time she climbed back into her car, her anger had finally deflated, leaving a deep sense of regret in its wake.

When she arrived at the house again, the snow was falling in earnest. None of it was sticking to the ground yet, but Sam’s little one-story with the blue siding looked like a home in a snow globe, the windows glowing with yellow light against a dark February evening.

Half-sick with misery, she approached the door with her single shopping bag in hand and let herself in.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

“I got the salad dressing,” Abby called, pulling out her selections and arranging them on the table. “Three kinds.”

Still nothing.

“Sam?” Her stomach knotted up with worry. Was he avoiding her on purpose?

“I’m back here.”

She followed the sound of his voice down the hallway. There, the nursery door was cracked. Pushing it the rest of the way open, she stepped inside.

The walls were still the pale aquamarine Sam had painted them a month ago, and the twin white cribs and matching changing table were just where she remembered them being. Still, the room had been transformed.

“You did this?” she asked, frozen on the woven rug they’d used to provide the hardwood floor with some cushion and color.

“Yeah.” He stood there with his arms crossed, grinning, obviously proud of the decorating he’d done while she’d been gone on her salad dressing errand. “What do you think?”

“I love it.” She walked a slow circuit of the room, examining each of half a dozen framed prints even though she’d already memorized every line and curve of the drawings they displayed. A brief story was told in six frames, the pictures highlighting Amethyst Fox’s journey, the purple fox shown in key scenes from
Amethyst Fox’s Treasure Hunt
.

“I was careful not to damage your original artwork,” Sam said. “I had Natalie tell me how to make copies one day while you were at work.”

She hadn’t even considered how he’d made the prints, until then – the shock of seeing them hanging in the nursery had demanded all of her attention. “This is great.” She turned to face him before guilt over her store trip resentment could supersede her surprise.

“I have something else to show you, too.” He exited the nursery, leaving the door wide open for her to follow.

Across the hall, he stepped into another room – the spare one she’d stored a few moving boxes in.

It wasn’t just a storage room anymore.

“What’s this?” She strode toward an unfamiliar desk, laying a hand on its wooden surface and taking in the chair and lamp she’d also never seen before.

“I figured this could be your office, or studio, or whatever you want to call it. You need one if you’re going to be working from home – sketching out at the kitchen table won’t work once the babies get here.”

“Working from home?” That was technically what she was doing when she drew up designs for clients, but she’d never really thought of it that way and had never had a room devoted to her artwork before.

“Yeah. Now you have a place to work on your illustrations. And don’t tell me it’s not work – now that you’ve got an office, it’s official.”

His grin tempted her to smile, and after a split second of resistance, she gave in. “I haven’t sold anything yet, you know. We still haven’t heard back from the publisher.”

He shrugged. “If you want illustrating to be a part of your career, you should treat it like a part of your career. If that publisher decides to pass on your and Natalie’s books, they’re missing out. You’re not going to give up on illustrating if one company turns you down, are you?”

Now it was her turn to shrug. “I never seriously considered what I’d do then.”

“Regardless of what the publisher says, you should keep trying. Your illustrations are good – damn good – and you like the work. Why not pursue it, especially since you like having projects you can work on when you’re not at Hot Ink?”

Giving in to her aching knees’ silent plea – hours of standing in the kitchen hadn’t been kind to her body – she sank slowly into the desk chair Sam had given her. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just … wasn’t expecting this. Thank you.”

He leaned over the back of her chair, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” His breath rushed hot against her ear as he spoke, his light stubble scratching her jaw in a way that made her want to squirm with delight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you too. I love the gifts you gave me.”

That was an understatement – beyond the usefulness of having her own well-equipped work space, he’d given her acceptance and peace. Finally, she could stop worrying that he resented her for being home, for not working hard at a traditional job and bringing home a steady salary. If anything, his gifts proved that he had more faith in her than she had in herself. It was an amazing feeling, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “You know, I feel terrible that all I have to give you is a lousy salad.”

“With three types of dressing to choose from,” he amended, as if that made everything all right.

She laughed, unable to help it. “Yeah. And rolls – don’t forget about those.”

“Actually…” He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, grimacing. “I didn’t take them out in time, and they burnt. I was busy getting the desk and chair out of hiding. Sorry.”

Laughter burst out of her, along with some of the tension she hadn’t been able to shake. “You really burnt the rolls?”

“You mad?”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I was – after all, I ruined the entire dinner.”

He slid his hands a little lower, so that they cupped her breasts. “I may have forgotten about the rolls, but I haven’t forgotten about your other promise.” He ran his thumbs over the peaks of her breasts, circling.

Beneath her shirt and the thin cups of her bra, her nipples sprang up instantly. “Well, there’s still that… But we were supposed to have an amazing dinner first.” She’d been so invested in creating the perfect from-scratch Valentine’s dinner that it was still hard to accept that she’d stuffed the whole hot mess down the garbage disposal.

“We still can. Come on, let’s have some of that salad, and then we can go out. I don’t care how long we have to wait to get a table – we’re going to be up late, anyway.”

* * * * *

Abby’s Valentine’s promise was about to be fulfilled and then some, if her outfit was any indication. Forget chicken and whatever else she’d stuffed down the garbage disposal that afternoon; the only gift he wanted from her was one that came wrapped in lace.

White lace, to be exact. Not black, or red, but white. The ivory lingerie was perfect on her; the soft shade let her tattoos and nipples show through the paper-thin material, dark and bold. His cock went hard as steel as he studied the flimsy lace triangles cradling her breasts and the ruffled hem that hit just below her hips and surely left half her ass uncovered, though he hadn’t been granted a back view yet.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” She said it like she meant it, a slow smile curling her glossed lips as she stood beside the bed, her belly peeking from beneath the babydoll’s split front.

His reply was more of a moan than an actual word. He went to her, still wearing the pants and shirt he’d put on for their dinner date. She’d seemed to enjoy that, and so had he, but his mind had been on what was happening now the entire time.

“You look amazing.” He slid his arms around her waist, resting his hands in the valley above her hips.

His gaze was drawn to the white of her négligée
and color of her tattoos; together, they created contrast that sent sharp-edged want into the very core of his being. When he let himself study the way her breasts swelled against and strained the lace, his mouth watered.

“So, you promised me dessert.” He eased her down onto the bed, reining in his urgency in favor of being gentle. He wanted to throw himself at her, to lay her down, spread her thighs and bury himself so deep inside her that she wouldn’t know where she ended and he began. Her breasts tempted him, impossibly full inside cups that were almost too small, while the curve of her belly reminded him to be careful.

“I did.” She sat perched on the edge of the bed, still smiling her glossy closed-lip smile. “I hope it turns out a lot better than my dinner efforts.”

He knelt at the bedside, putting himself at eye level with her chest. “I would’ve skipped straight to dessert in the first place, if you’d let me. Forget about dinner.”

She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but it turned into a soft “oh” when he ran a hand up the inside of one of her thighs and slipped his fingers into her panties.

Her wetness was immediately transferred to his skin, and his balls drew up tight in response. Maybe she knew how good she looked, how crazy she was driving him, how badly he wanted to eat her like the dessert she’d promised him. They’d had chocolate cheesecake before leaving the restaurant, but he could hardly remember the flavor; he could already taste her, and nothing but her, on the tip of his tongue.

The same elastic quality that allowed the lace to stretch over her swollen breasts made it easy to pull the crotch of her panties aside. Exposing the folds of her pussy, he leaned in, pressing his mouth to her skin as the hem of her babydoll brushed across his brow.

She gasped and sat frozen for a split second before leaning back and spreading her thighs wider, exposing herself completely to his open mouth. Sometimes, during the day, he sensed her reserve and knew that she worried about things she didn’t mention to him.

It was never like that when they were in bed. She was uninhibited when it came down to her body tangled with his, free in a way that made him ache to be inside her.

Maybe it was because their relationship had been started on an unconstrained – although admittedly flimsy – foundation of no-holds-barred sex, or maybe it was because their bodies were meant to fit together this way, or any way they could think of. Whatever the reason, no one had ever excited or satisfied him like her.

“That feels so good,” she half-whispered, half-gasped as he stroked her clit with his tongue, occasionally slipping below to tease the lips of her pussy.

He cupped her ass cheeks in his hands, holding her steady as he delved inside her with his tongue, testing her familiar heat and tightness.

His dick throbbed as he pushed, deeper, until his lips were aching against her soft, slippery skin and he’d gone as far as he could go.

Her hips bucked like he’d known they would, but he held her steady.

The moment he ran his tongue over her clit again, her hips rocked more forcefully. He relished her energy, letting it fuel thoughts of how he’d soon be balls-deep inside her, and how that would feel. For now, he ached, still wearing all of his clothing. Soon, things would be different, and the thought had heat pooling at the base of his spine, relentless.

She came with a shudder that sent a frisson down his spine, and she tasted that much sweeter as he worked his tongue against her clit, holding her tighter than ever.

When he rose from between her thighs, finally pulling her panties off, he was half-intoxicated by the taste and smell of her. Sliding a thin strap down over her shoulder, he bared one of her breasts and bent to suck its hardened tip.

Her nipple was hot inside his mouth, firm against his tongue. A sweetness that was wholly unimagined filled his mouth, and he groaned as he cupped her breast from below, filling his hand with its weight. Despite his rock-hard dick, he remained bent, too captivated to be uncomfortable.

Whenever he finally rose, both her nipples had gone from a dusky rose color to a shade of pink that was both brighter and darker. Wet from his mouth, they stood as erect as he’d ever seen them, so tempting he had to force himself to resist them.

Instead, he undid the top button of his shirt, forcing fingers that burnt with the urge to touch her to perform the mundane task instead.

She helped, starting at the bottom and letting her fingertips stroke his belly as she unfastened his buttons.

Their hands met in the middle, and he grasped one of hers briefly before shrugging out of his shirt.