The rebound, p.3
The Rebound, page 3
“I’m golden. Let’s get you home.”
The car ride back to the complex isn’t very long, but Kinley still dozes off with her head resting lightly against the window.
A tender feeling seizes my heart.
I’ve never had someone fall asleep while I was driving, except that one time I drove the rookie back to his place when he was blackout drunk. This feels different somehow, more meaningful. Kinley trusts me completely to get her home safely.
I glance at her belly as it rises and falls with her serene breathing. A strange, foreign thought occurs to me.
For the first time ever, I’ve got a baby on board. How about that?
When I pull into the parking garage at our complex, Kinley is still sound asleep. I don’t want to wake her, but we don’t know each other well enough for me to carry her upstairs. I quietly unload the shopping bags and bring them inside before coming back for Kinley. When I open the passenger side door, she jolts awake.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re home,” I say softly. I consider placing a comforting hand on her knee, but Kinley blinks a few times and recovers before I can decide whether it’s a good idea or not.
“Oh, I fell asleep, didn’t I? Sorry. These days I’m always on the brink of a nap.”
“It’s no problem. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
I offer her a hand, and Kinley accepts it. Her palm is soft as silk, and her grip light and pleasant. A shiver climbs up my arm and spreads across my chest.
Just going to ignore that sensation for now.
Since her feet are swollen from walking around all day, Kinley lets me help her up the stairs. Once we’re in her condo, she gestures to the couch with her half-empty water bottle.
“There. Just leave me there to die.”
I chuckle, following her lead to the couch and steadying her as she lowers herself with a huff. Once I’m sure she’s comfortable, I look her in the eye and deadpan, “Rest in peace.”
Kinley lets out a low laugh from deep in her chest, sinking into the cushions. “Peace, huh? What would you say at my funeral?”
I take a moment to contemplate this while I’m stacking pillows beneath her ankles. “She had a great sense of humor and very swollen feet.”
“Deep,” she says, her eyebrows hitching. She takes a gulp from the water bottle before stifling another yawn. “Thanks for your help today. You’re really the best neighbor I’ve ever had. Or maybe I’m the worst neighbor you’ve ever had.”
I shrug. “Like I said, nothing better to do.”
It’s true. If I weren’t here, I would just be sitting alone at my own place, probably playing video games. Maybe getting tempted to get into trouble. At that thought, I glance around, deciding I might as well continue to make myself useful.
While Kinley dozes, I wander around her condo, putting away the new purchases one by one. New air fresheners in the bathroom. Paper towels and cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. Two kinds of prenatal vitamins on the kitchen island. Four bags of frozen broccoli in the freezer.
Huh. I guess she really likes broccoli.
Laundry detergent and fabric softener in the cupboard above the washer and dryer. A small succulent in the living room on the window ledge, where it will get plenty of sun. The new pair of plush slippers outside of her bedroom door.
While I organize whatever I can, I walk past the second bedroom door, which is cracked open a couple of inches. Inside, the walls are painted a soft beige just like the rest of the condo, and boxes of diapers are piled on the floor.
This must be the nursery.
I almost peek my head in for a better look, but think better of it. I’d rather have Kinley show it to me herself. Besides, there’s not much to see. It doesn’t look like she’s done much with the space yet.
I’m tempted to start helping her unpack the rest of those moving boxes too, but that feels a little more personal than unpacking the shopping bags we filled together just a couple of hours ago. I glance at my watch, seeing almost dinnertime, and wonder if I have enough time to go back to my place and whip something up for her while she’s still asleep.
“What time is it?”
I turn to see Kinley standing up from the couch, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She smiles at me, refreshed from the short but much-needed rest.
“Almost dinnertime.”
“Oh man, I must have slept for a while. I’m a terrible host.”
“You were tired. I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and put away as much as I could.”
She looks around, taking in the view of a tidier living space. “Are you kidding? That’s so nice of you. I’m . . . whew.” She blinks back some tears and swallows. “I’m getting emotional. Will you let me make you some dinner as a thank-you? I really can’t be indebted to you like this. It’s too much.”
“Kinley, it’s really okay—”
“Please? I love cooking. It wouldn’t be a hassle for me. Plus, I’m starving. You’d be doing me a favor.” She uses my own words from last night against me with a knowing smile.
I rub the stubble along my jaw, uncertain if accepting a favor from a pregnant woman will somehow undo all the good karma I’ve earned today.
You know what? Screw karma. I like spending time with Kinley. And if she wants to make me dinner, then why the hell not?
“Sure, I’m down.”
“Awesome.” She sighs in relief. Looking toward the kitchen, she chews on her lower lip. “I don’t actually have a lot to work with here. My grocery order doesn’t come until tomorrow . . . Do you like broccoli?”
I nod. “I do like broccoli, but I have a better idea. Why don’t we move this party to my place?”
It’s a phrase I’ve said in many bars to many women, and I only realize the implication once the words are hanging in the air between us like a swarm of red flags. The last thing I want is for Kinley to think I’m some creep.
Backpedaling, I lift my hands in the air. “I, uh, went grocery shopping a couple days ago, so you’ll have more ingredients to work with than just broccoli. That is, if you’re okay with that scenario?”
Smooth save, Saint. But if Kinley suspects anything, she certainly isn’t giving any indication.
Smiling innocently at me, she shrugs. “I think that would be best.”
Well, damn. Guess I’m taking a pregnant lady home with me.
That’s a first.
I guess the new Saint is having lots of firsts lately.
4
* * *
KINLEY
Saint’s place is nice. Like, really nice. And I’m not just saying that because I’ve been stepping around half-unpacked moving boxes for the past week. No, his condo looks like a page torn out of a minimalist interior design magazine.
Everything is monochromatic and clean, satisfying the undiagnosed OCD in me immediately. And since the layout of our condos is almost identical, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m actively taking mental notes on how to arrange my own place. His living room holds a large navy sectional that faces the windows, and his round dining table fits perfectly into the nook off the kitchen. Three upholstered bar stools are lined up at the island.
“Shoes off?” I ask, not wanting to track any dirt onto his sparkling floors.
“Whatever’s more comfortable for you.” But he kicks his shoes off, so I follow suit.
“Did you design all of this?” I gesture to the space.
Saint grins and scratches the back of his head. “Yes and no. Don’t laugh, but my mom is an interior designer. She personally hates this style, but I stole a few ideas from her over the years and adapted them to better suit me and my preferences.”
“It’s beautiful. You must have a good job to afford all of this.”
He nods a little reluctantly. “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing the same grind for the past four years and it’s paid off. How about you? What do you do to afford all that broccoli?”
I chuckle. “Don’t act like you didn’t pay for my broccoli too. I do just fine. I’m a freelance digital marketer with a focus on brand creation.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.”
“It’s good enough for now,” I say before looking down at my belly. “Once this guy is out and about, I’m going to have to decrease my hours in order to take care of him. No more twelve-hour days on the phone with clients.”
“My schedule is really flexible during the summer,” Saint says, and I almost think he’s bragging until he says, “so if you need any help running errands or whatever, I’m your man.”
I’m your man. The phrase would make me blush if it weren’t so innocently delivered. His kindness has been unexpected, but also very appreciated.
“I appreciate that more than you know.” I’m about to ask him what it is that he does for a living that gives him that kind of flexibility, but he waves me into the kitchen.
Just like the rest of his condo, every appliance is in pristine condition. The espresso machine in the corner catches my eye, and all other thoughts dissolve into a massive craving for coffee.
Saint follows my line of sight. “You want some coffee?”
“No, I’m off caffeine right now. Hence all the naps.”
“I could make decaf.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’d better not. It’ll just confuse my body.”
“Ah, well, once the little guy is here, you can come over and make yourself some espresso anytime.”
I narrow my eyes at his back as he opens the fridge. I thought his name was fitting before, but now I’m pretty sure he’s an actual angel on earth.
“All right, we’ve got all sorts of produce . . . zucchini, tomatoes, potatoes, fresh garlic, arugula—”
“Geez, you eat really healthy foods.”
“Don’t be fooled. There are at least ten frozen pizzas in here.” He chuckles, tapping his knuckles against the freezer door. “I went to the farmers’ market recently and left with enough produce to feed a small army.”
“There’s a farmers’ market nearby?”
“Yeah, every Saturday from eight in the morning until sundown. If you’re around next weekend, I could take you.”
“You know me. I’ve got no plans.”
Even as I say you know me, I think how silly that must sound to him. We’ve only just met. But I really do feel like Saint and I have become fast friends. Faster friends than any other friends I’ve had, at least. It’s nice to just click with someone so quickly, even if it is the last thing I expected.
I clear my throat. “If you have any bread, I make a mean vegetarian panini.”
“I have some sliced multigrain and some ciabatta.”
“I can work with that. Throw me the ciabatta.”
It’s a quick and easy recipe that I learned during my brief stint as a vegetarian back in college. Simmer some onions and tomatoes in a pan with a little sugar until it reaches a jammy consistency, season and sauté some zucchini, and then slap it all on bread slathered with garlic mayo. Panini-press the whole sandwich, if you have one, which of course Saint does.
When it’s all done, I plate the sandwiches for us while Saint looks on, impressed.
We sit down at the small dining table strategically positioned by the window overlooking the courtyard. The sunset casts a warm glow across the whole room, making my companion’s dark eyelashes create shadows against his high cheekbones. I haven’t had the chance to make food for another person for over half a year now, so watching Saint’s eyes light up when he takes his first bite is all kinds of fulfilling.
“This is really fucking good,” he says, mid-chew.
“I’m glad you like it.” I beam at him, taking a bite of my own.
Yep, that hits the spot.
Over dinner, we talk more about summer in Boston, what there is to do, what there is to see. It’s not long before our plates are empty and our appetites satisfied.
When I stand up to clean up the kitchen, my feet scream in protest. Saint must notice my wince, because he quickly takes the plates from my hands and urges me to sit back down.
“I’ve got it. You just relax.”
I sigh, feeling a little helpless in my condition. I used to be able to do everything by myself. It’s humbling to have my body remind me to slow down like this.
After dragging my tired body over to the surprisingly comfortable leather couch, I find myself content to just lie back and listen to Saint clean up in the kitchen. There’s something so domestic about the way the dishwasher hums and the fridge gently opens and closes with each ingredient being put back in its rightful place.
Saint reemerges from the kitchen, drying his hands on a small dishtowel. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right.” I release a slow exhale, and Saint continues to appraise me, almost like he’s inspecting me to be sure I’m telling him the truth.
“I’ve never really, uh, been around someone who’s pregnant before. Are there, like rules, or . . .”
I grin, despite myself. “There are some rules. I’m not supposed to eat sushi or deli meats. I can’t take certain medications. And there’s some activities to avoid, like the obvious ones—bungee jumping, or even taking up a new vigorous workout routine.”
“Darn, I’ll have to cancel that skydiving excursion I was planning to take you on.” He treats me to a wolfish grin.
I chuckle, appreciating yet again his easy sense of humor. “Trust me, you’ve done more than enough. I fact, I think I overdid it today,” I say with a sigh. “My feet are pretty swollen.”
“That sounds like fun,” Saint says, somehow managing to sound both sarcastic and compassionate at the same time.
“Yeah, well, comes with the territory of being a mom-to-be. Here, let me make room for you,” I mumble, trying to swing my feet off the couch, but Saint beats me to it, lifting them gently and placing them on his lap as he sits down.
I hold my breath. I don’t care if he is a new friend—if I’m about to get a free foot massage from a handsome guy, I’m not about to say no.
“May I?” Saint asks, thumbs at the ready and poised against the soles of my feet.
I giggle a little and nod, words escaping me.
Wow, this guy is unreal. I’m half expecting to wake up from this wild dream—you know, the one where a magical stranger fulfills all my needs? But he digs his thumbs into my sore feet, and I don’t wake up. Instead, I shudder in pleasure, stifling the moan that’s begging to climb out of my throat.
This is intimate. Maybe too intimate. But I don’t want it to stop.
“You have any siblings?” I ask, my mind blank.
What is this, speed dating?
“Only child,” he says. “People tell me I give off only-child energy.”
“Not at all.” Genuinely surprised, I smile at him. “I would have guessed you were an older sibling with all of these caretaker instincts.”
Saint laughs, and I notice—not for the first time—how broad his shoulders are. How deep his dimples are in his cheeks, and how defined his jawline is. I can’t help but watch those muscular arms move, tapering down into thick, masculine hands. It’s hard to ignore how devastatingly handsome my new friend is. And sweet, and attentive—
Okay, seriously . . . stop, Kinley. He’s not interested in a chick who’s seven months pregnant, and you’re certainly not in the market for a new man.
“You have any siblings?” he asks, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts.
“One older brother. He actually lives—”
Saint hits a particularly ticklish spot, and I gasp.
“Sorry.” He chuckles. “You good?”
The smirk on his lips sends a shiver of pleasure up my legs and into my core, coiling between my hips.
Okay, I’m turned on, I’ll admit it, but there’s no way in hell I’d let him know that. This man has been nothing but good to me, and I’m not about to make it weird by coming on to him. I’m pregnant, for Pete’s sake. It’s probably just hormones. And I certainly wouldn’t want to risk the only friendship I’ve made here in Boston by being completely inappropriate with him.
“I’m good. Thank you.” As I gently pull my feet back, I immediately miss the feel of his warm, strong hands soothing me. “I should probably go back to my place and unwind for the night. This was honestly such a nice day. Thank you.”
“I had a good time too.”
Why does this feel like the kind of conversation you have after a really great first date?
Almost as if he can read my mind, Saint asks, “Can I give you my number?”
“Um. Sure.”
“Just in case you need anything before we hit up the farmers’ market.”
“Right. Just in case.” I can’t help the grin on my face.
I’m so out of practice that I don’t even know if the man is flirting with me or just being considerate to a new neighbor. It’s probably the latter. I could imagine Saint doing the same thing if an eighty-year old woman had moved in down the hall, carrying her groceries and boxes of books.
We exchange phone numbers quietly, and I try to ignore how my body is humming with excitement. I manage to convince him to let me walk back to my condo by myself, which is silly since I’m only down the hall.
“I’ll see you later,” I say. “Thanks again for today.”
Saint leans against the door frame, his long and lean body on full display. It takes everything in me not to check him out.
“Thanks for dinner. Good night, Kinley.”
“Good night.”
Back at my place, my phone buzzes, and I half expect to see Saint’s name. But the caller ID informs me it’s someone else. Mom.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
“Hello, Kinley. I texted you earlier today and didn’t hear back from you. It’s like you want me to be worried sick.”
“I’m sorry. I was out with a friend running errands.”
“A friend? I didn’t know you had friends in Boston.”
“Well, he’s kind of my first friend here, a neighbor from down the hall. Really sweet guy. He’s kind of helped me out with Walker gone on his trip.”
