It wasn't going to be beautiful. In fact, life with me was going to be ugly, and I wasn't even sure he'd be up for staying the whole ride. Also, I still had to tell him about my condition. About my inability to have children. About the reality that was waiting for me-a reality that was only going to deteriorate-and what it entailed. The medications. The vests. The massages. The hefty bags I dragged everywhere. The inevitable disabilities as my systems would come crashing down one by one. Everything.
And Dean had secrets of his own. I knew that, too.
Who was waiting for him in Alabama, and who was the girl he spoke on the phone with the day he barged into my apartment to convince me to go to Todos Santos? There was no point poking at the subject. He had to come to me willingly and tell me everything, just like I had to muster up the courage to open the subject of my health and issues.
Right now, I didn't want it to be complicated.
Right now, I wanted to live.
"Millie is pregnant, by the way." I pressed my lips to his throat and sucked lightly as the same flight attendant, who served us on the way into San Diego a week ago, passed us by and shot me an odd look. Last time, we looked like we were about to kill each other. Now, I was three seconds away from joining the mile high club in front of a dozen or so sleepy first-class flyers.
Dean jerked his head and scanned my face. He looked slightly tortured by the news, and I frowned.
"God, Dean, don't tell me you don't like children," I teased. He picked up my hand, pressing my knuckles to his lips. His expression was so tight, I thought the wrinkles between his eyebrows would split his face in two.
"How do you feel about it?" He ignored my statement. Wait, does he actually not like children? I had a feeling it was a sore spot for him as much as it was for me.
I looked down, smiling.
"I'm happier than anyone." I munched on my lower lip. "I'm going to spend every penny I have on buying this baby all the toys in New York, and I'm going to learn how to knit."
"Oh, fuck. Continue." He snaked a hand between my thighs and leaned forward to nibble on my earlobe. "Tell me more about you knitting. Your dirty talk game is strong today."
I swatted his chest, still in awe of the fact that I was sleeping with this gorgeous man. I always dated nice-looking men, but Dean was in a league of his own.
"I'm serious. I can't wait to be an aunt. Do you think it's a boy or a girl?"
Again with those sad, brooding eyes that came out of nowhere. Was he hiding something from me? Was it the same thing I was hiding from him?
"A boy," he said, kissing my neck. "You?"
"A girl." I rubbed my nose against his in an Eskimo kiss.
When we got back to our apartment building, he escorted me to my door, wheeling both our suitcases, and when I was about to turn around and close the door to my apartment-because there was absolutely no way we were sleeping together, I was too tired to take a shower after the wedding, and it had been twenty-four hours since my body and soap shared a hot date-he shoved his hand and stopped it from closing shut.
"I think we need to make a few rules." His voice was businesslike.
I opened the door a crack, peeking through it sheepishly.
"You do?" I grinned.
"You fucking bet. Rule number one: I'm allowed to use my key for your place and vice versa." He dug his hand inside his pocket and produced a key, which he put in my palm, curling my fingers over it. "Rule number two: your dating days are over. You're mine now."
"Are you mine, too?" I arched an eyebrow.
"Always have been, Baby LeBlanc. This cock was just a rental that's now being used by its legitimate owner." He continued. "Rule number three: no secrets. If something bothers us," his tone turned a shade darker, "we talk about it. We fucking address it. And we don't shy away from the bad shit, because I know there is going to be some bad shit down the road, and I'm still all in. Understood?"
"Sounds fair." I nodded, about to close the door again. I really was tired. And even though I was happy, I also needed a shower and to clear my airways after the flight.
"And, sweetheart?" He looked over his shoulder, pressing the elevator button.
"Yes, Mr. Bossy Pants?"
"Congratulations, you have a new boyfriend."
"You're not my boyfriend."
"Your Facebook status claims differently."
"What?!"
Ping. He walked into the elevator, a cunning smile on his face as the door slid shut.
"Like the fucking post, Rosie. Goodbye."