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CHAPTER 22

GOLDIE

Twelve Weeks:

Baby is approximately the size of a plum.

April in Florida feels like walking through a hot, wet mouth, and not in the fun, sexy way. RIP my central AC that died sometime before I woke up this morning. We had a good run, her and me.

But living down here means a working AC is a must. And being knocked up makes this so unacceptable that I rage ate an entire pint of ice cream Sumner left in my freezer while stripping down to a T-shirt and underwear and planting my ass on the kitchen counter in front of a shitty box fan I dug out of the garage.

The boob sweat is no joke. Don’t even get me started on the thigh chafing.

But honestly? The broken AC isn't the only reason I'm a sticky, overheated mess right now. My pregnancy hormones are completely out of control. I’ve been horny to the point of rage-y distraction for the last few weeks, but your girl’s held strong. Between the heat and my current state of desperation, I'm so wet on a daily basis I could climb the walls Poltergeist-style.

It really doesn't help that Sumner is currently shoved halfway into the utility closet off the kitchen, wrestling with my HVAC unit. I texted Colston complaining about the heat an hour ago, fully expecting my text-bestie to just validate my misery and maybe send a funny meme. Instead, the traitor snitched to Sumner. I was in the middle of Googling local repair companies when my baby daddy walked through my front door wearing worn-in jeans and an actual fucking tool belt slung low over his hips.

Sploosh.

Someone call OSHA because this man is a total workplace hazard. I bite my lip and tilt my head to the side to get a better view and change up the angle a little.

His white T-shirt is completely soaked in sweat to the point it’s see-through. The cotton clings to every single ridge of his back muscles as he wrenches a bolt loose. I should get an award for watching him work and not trying to mount him like a mechanical bull.

We’ve spent the last month dancing around each other, playing by my stupid rules that I’m starting to wish I’d never set. After he laid all his cards on the table that night at the party, I decided it was time to deal with my shit and started seeing a therapist. I was so sick of my own toxic baggage standing in the way, and I knew if I didn't get my head straight, I was going to ruin this thing between him and me before it ever really had a chance to start.

And Sumner? He’s been so, so patient. He comes over, he cooks, he fixes things, and he doesn't try to touch me. Oh, I can tell he wants to, but he never crosses the line.

He does so much for me, and he’s never once complained or acted like he was doing me a favor. I think acts of service might be his love language.

Last week, he somehow recreated my favorite Seattle-style teriyaki when I had a craving, and it was magical. He dropped it off at the studio, then left before I could even offer him a bite so I didn’t have to share. He rubs my feet when they swell. He listens to my mom ramble on FaceTime. He does everything he promised he would do, showing up for me day after day, and he hasn't pushed my boundaries once.

Every time he does something reliable and steady, it breaks apart a little of my resolve. My therapist told me last week that I was confusing self-protection with self-sabotage. She pointed out that I’ve spent my whole life expecting to be let down or treated like a burden, so I’m pushing away the one guy who actually steps up to carry the weight without making me feel like an inconvenience.

That realization hit me hard. I’m still a little scared to take the leap, but the idea of letting him slip away is way worse. I'm ready. I want this. I want him. I want to take the jump and feel like I'm finally coming home because that’s how being around Sumner feels.

Like home.

Plus, keeping my hands to myself for this long is turning me into an absolute feral menace.

“Goldie, I’m dying in here,” Sumner calls out over the hum of the fan. “Have a little mercy and point that thing this way before I melt onto your floor.”

I lift my hair off the back of my neck and let the air hit the sweat underneath. “But I need it.”

“So do I.”

I look toward the utility closet, where all I can see is one denim-clad leg and the edge of his tool belt. He’s been wedged in there fixing my AC while I sit on the counter contributing absolutely nothing, so I suppose letting him die of heatstroke would be shitty of me.

“Fine. You should probably take a hydration break anyway.” I hop down and fill one of my painted vintage glasses with ice and water. By the time Sumner backs out of the closet and straightens, his shirt is soaked through, and sweat is running down the side of his face.

I hold the cup out to him. “Drink.”

He takes it without arguing and steps directly into the path of the fan.

Which gives me a truly spectacular view while he tips his head back and drains half the glass. His throat bobs as he drinks, and I want to bite it.

This is some bodice-ripper shit right here, and I don’t know if it’s drool running down my chin or sweat, but holy shitballs.

His throat works with every swallow, and I watch, completely rapt. Like, I don’t think I could tear my eyes away even if I wanted to.