Chapter 14

Remington stirred, his eyes blinking open. Relief pulsed through his veins when he found Laura lying on her back still fast asleep beside him much the same way as she'd fallen asleep: head pillowed on his arm, one of his legs tucked between hers, and his arm slung over her waist, his hand gently clutching it. Contrary to his fears, in those first waking moments, it hadn't been another dream that ended in the crushing blow of him waking up to a Laura-less bed.

They'd made love and afterwards had dined in his bed, forgoing the eggplant parmesan for a plate of cheese, fruit and bread, then had made love again before they'd fallen into a light slumber. The evening had been reminiscent of their days spent in the cabin, lending to his fear it had all been just a dream. Shifting beside her, he fingered her hair back over her shoulder. He had no idea what kind of compromises she'd had to make with herself to allow this night happen, but his gratitude was boundless that she had.

It hadn't been easy getting back to this, what they'd begun building before her fateful decision that night a couple of months before... and his foolish decisions afterwards. Since he'd returned she'd lived on the edge of her emotions. Leaving as he had, had confirmed her greatest fear: that one day she might wake to find he'd vanished back into the misty night from which he'd come. As for bedding Felicia? Well, that had had its intended effect as well as a morass of consequences he'd have been unwilling to pay had he put any thought, whatsoever, into his impetuous choice to wound Laura, to leave her with the images of him with another woman, much as she had left him with images of her with another man.

Lifting the hand lying at her waist, he rubbed his face. Good God, those first days after his return had been simply brutal in many ways. She'd been alternately reticent and seemingly, at times, apathetic when it had come to trying to salvage their personal relationship. What made it worse was she had every reason to be torn, untrusting. When her eyes would alight on the bruise left by Felicia, the naked hurt on her face, in those eyes, had left him full of remorse and feeling like quite the cad. That he'd intentionally inflicted such pain upon her? Well, it left him not liking himself... not very much at all. And, it had become patently clear that she needed answers to questions she'd never dare to ask if they had any hope, whatsoever, of trying to piece back together what they'd had not so long ago.

Thus, a truly awkward conversation had been initiated by himself with her, not even a week yet since he'd returned home.

"I stopped 'round the physician's office yesterday," he approached with no little discomfort, as he sliced the tomatoes to add to the salad that would be accompanying their dinner. She snatched a slice of carrot from the cutting board, from where she perched on the island.

"Oh? I didn't realize you hadn't been feeling well."

"I'm not. Feeling unwell that is." He paid an inordinate amount of attention to the tomato in front of him. "It was more… a precautionary visit." He dared to look up and watch as eyes flitted away from him, as understanding began to dawn.

"Oh?" Her refusal to look at him, the way her face pinched with distress, made his stomach flip-flop and his gut clench. For the hundredth time, he questioned what he'd been thinking, what he'd done what he had… and if in doing so he'd destroyed any possibility of them ever recovering. Nevertheless, he forged on as best he could given his suddenly thick tongue.

"We… I… used protection… a condom. Still, I thought it wise… for you… the babe… that I… get a clean bill of health." While the first words had been said haltingly, to say the least, the last half dozen he'd breathed out in a single puff of air, as his face had flamed bright red. The words hadn't come out at all as he'd practiced them a dozen times over and the apparent presumption that their physical relationship would at some point resume had hung between them throughout the entirety of the meal…

After which she'd scampered out the door as quickly as her feet could carry her, leaving him with the impression that those few gossamer threads still binding them to one another were unraveling before his eyes. How she'd found it within herself to allow them to move on past his indiscretion, his betrayal, he didn't know, but God above knew how thankful he was that she had.

He'd stopped denying, even to himself, what it was that he wanted. He wanted her, a life with her, a home with her, a family with her. He wanted their child to have something neither of them had ever had: two parents who loved one another, who provided a warm, stable, loving environment in which their child would flourish.

A child who seemed to be making its presence known, he acknowledged, a smile lighting his face as he skimmed a hand over her bare tummy. His eyes flickered upwards to rest on her face, assuring himself she was still sleeping, and finding she was, he shifted downwards so his head was near her belly as he continued to explore it with whisper-soft strokes of his fingers.

As they'd made love, he'd noticed the changes in her body the instant his sensitive fingers had come into contact with her slim form. How could he not? He had, after all, spent endless hours memorizing every inch of her lovely frame. The gentle slope of her breasts had become slightly more full. Her delicate waist had thickened just enough that her soft curves had become less pronounced. But it was the new fullness to her abdomen which had really brought it all home to him.

Laura was pregnant.

With his child.

And he was bloody well chuffed about it.

A baby. Our child. He traced his fingers across Laura's abdomen.

Girl or boy? Boy or girl? Who would the babe look like? Laura? Him? Or a mixture of the two of them? Would the babe make its way through the world seizing each day like himself? Or would the babe be more like Laura, carefully calculating the risks before taking that first step? Would he or she wish to one day wander the world or would they prefer to stay close to home? Would he or she play the piano, draw, or dance? Any of those a'tall?

Good God, he hoped if their child was a girl that she'd have her mother's expressive brown eyes, her mother's freckles. He frowned slightly. Or perhaps not, on the latter, should those dapples of color fascinate a young man, as much as cinnamon sprinkles across her mother's skin had intoxicated him from the start. No. No need to beg for trou—

A set of fingers stroked the top of his head. Lifting his head, he held captive a pair of questioning brown eyes with his blue ones.

Then leaned down and touched his lips to her stomach, allowing them to linger.