Ready and Willing (12 page)

I rub my thumbs over the backs of Noah’s hands and let them go. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.”
He drains his coffee, sets the mug beside the plastic wand for a second,
then
slides it farther down the counter, as if that spot is reserved for more significant objects. “Well, I should head back to Arlington. My sister’s got more relatives due this afternoon. I’ve got my fingers crossed her in-laws might give my nephews
Garage Band
so I can totally commandeer it.”

“Cool.” I follow Noah to the living room and watch him get his coat and shoes back on. I follow him down the stairwell and out onto the front steps, savor a final study of his eyes in the silvery winter light. “What did you tell everyone when you disappeared to come over here?” I ask.

He grins. “I said a friend was having a tough time. That I’d be back when she was feeling better.”

I return his warm
smile,
wrap my arms around him for a quick hug. “She
is,
thank you. I’m going to start composing my speech for when my parents get back from their trip—the big announcement and all.”

“You should finish watching
It’s
a Wonderful Life
,” he says. “I love that movie.”

“Oh yeah.
One of Scorsese’s finest, I’m sure,” I joke.

He puts his hand on my arm, gives it a little squeeze.
“Merry Christmas, Abby.”

“Merry Christmas.
I’ll see you Friday. Oh—that’s New Year’s Eve.”

“I know. Is that okay?”

I think for a second about the symbolism of that evening, about new starts, the romantic adventure I suspect we’re about to embark on together. I grin. “Yeah, that’s just perfect.”

He gives me a big smile and makes an
okay
ring with his thumb and finger. “I’ll get you and the kid some sparkling cider.”

The kid
.
I like that. “Thanks,” I say. I scream it in my head,
thank you thank you thank you.

He heads down the front walk and calls back, “We’re going to be just fine, Abby.”

“I know. Drive safe.”

“I will. Keep the kid warm.”

This time as I watch him drive away, it doesn’t hurt. I watch his brake lights flash red as he reaches the corner, and warmth bursts in my chest. I run my hand over my stomach, poke it with my finger.

Your father’s a very nice man, I tell my middle. He did a very nice thing for your crazy old mother, a nicer thing than anybody should be asked to.

I head upstairs out of the cold. I wash Noah’s mug and set it in the rack, head back to the couch, and turn the movie back on. I watch it and I cry and I laugh. I smile as George Bailey runs screaming through the middle of Bedford Falls. I think about clothes—about tiny baby clothes and about what I might wear on New Year’s Eve when I see Noah. I drum my fingers over my belly and look around my place, as content now as I was restless before. I decide I’ll learn how to knit. I’ll knit tiny socks and hats, maybe something homely but thoughtful for Noah, if that still seems advisable a month or more from now. Yes, I’ll learn to knit very soon. But for now I have thank-
yous
to finish. I know
whose
to write next, but no clue what to say.

In the end I just write
Thanks
in the center of the card, slide it into its red envelope. I don’t like the thought of it downstairs, waiting in the cold metal mailbox with the other notes, the ones saying thank you for earrings and gift cards and baked goods. No, I’ll give it to him myself when I see him on Friday. I’ll wave at him from across the park, and I won’t know exactly who it is I’m looking at yet, but I’ll suspect I’m looking at more than a friend, perhaps even more than the father of the child in my belly. Only time will tell, and that’s exciting. Everything is exciting. Everything good and unexpected and scary that will happen to me this next year, everything I succeed at, and everything I royally fuck up, will be exciting.

And I will be just fine.

Cara McKenna writes smart erotica—sexy stories with depth.
A little dark, a little funny, always emotional.
She also writes red-hot romance under the name Meg Maguire, and was a 2010 Golden Heart finalist. Her wonderful publishers are
Ellora's
Cave, Harlequin Blaze, Loose-Id, and
Samhain
. She loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes, and bring one another to their knees.

Before becoming a purveyor of red-hot romance and smart erotica, Cara was a record store bitch, a lousy barista, a decent designer, and an overly enthusiastic penguin handler.

Cara now writes full-time and lives north of Boston with her extremely good-natured and permissive husband. When she's not trapped in her own head she can usually be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop, or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond. She is a very proud member of the Romance Writers of America® and her local New England Chapter.

Find out more about Cara at
http://www.caramckenna.com/
.