16. Emily

Chapter sixteen

Emily

S omething…changes. The vibe in the room immediately shifts, and Tracey's smile turns into a knowing smirk as Easton steps between us. I study her for a moment, trying to figure out what I missed.

Tracey is absolutely gorgeous and seems both older than Easton and I, yet ageless at the same time. Her dark brown skin is smooth and bright, but her eyes seem to take everything in, as if she's making a million calculations a minute. I wonder what she thinks about me. I have no clue what her role is. Relative? Employee? Both?

"I've got her," Easton says, interrupting my staring. "Can you arrange some clothing for her? She will be staying with us until we get this sorted out."

"I will be?" I ask aloud.

"Yes." He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine, then turns back to Tracey. I might as well be a Jane Austen character, because just that little contact is enough to turn my cheeks red.

He called you his friend . Don't get all pathetic when it turns out you were just his little project.

I look down to avoid eye contact with them as Easton addresses Tracey. "I'm going to put her in the garden suite. Can you let the staff know?"

Tracey's smile widens. "Of course."

We leave Tracey staring after us as Easton leads me down a short hall and into a bedroom with hardwood floors that practically glow in the sunlight streaming in from various windows along the far wall. I hesitate before following him into the immaculately clean room. The blood on me has to have dried by now, but even the thought of walking across that spotless floor has me stopping in my tracks at the threshold. He notices me staring at the floor and smiles. "Don't worry, the staff are used to us and our ways. We pay them well for putting up with us."

Reluctantly, I make my way across the bright room.This is not what I pictured when I thought of where a man like Easton might live. For some reason, I imagined dark, moody rooms full of wood paneling and sleek masculine furniture.

Instead, the bedroom we're in is the complete opposite. A king-sized bed resting on a modern, dark wooden frame is the main feature of the room and is centered perfectly along the wall opposite the door. Matching dressers and side tables fill the rest of the space. The style of decor is soft and relaxing. Pale colors and luxurious fabrics make the room look bigger and brighter with the aid of daylight streaming through many large windows. A small sitting area with chairs and a loveseat I could sink into is set up facing a set of French doors that lead outside to a well-tended garden. The entire scene looks like it is straight out of a magazine.

I can't help but gawk as he gently drags me along. My entire apartment could fit inside just this one room. Whatever the Degarmo family does to actually acquire money, it pays well. "This will be your suite while you're with us."

"You really don't have to go to all this trouble, Easton. I'd be fine in a small room–"

Easton looks down at me and shakes his head. "Don't make yourself smaller for other people, Emily. You're allowed to take up space."

"It's just that it's not like it's a friendly visit. I'm crashing here unexpectedly. If you need this room for someone else—"

He gives me a look, then continues to pull me across the room. "Do you want a shower or a bath?"

"Shower or bath?" I echo, confused. We are nowhere near a shower or a bath. Easton opens a closet. It's long and empty and at the end is another door.

He throws open the door at the end and turns on the light, then turns and looks back down at me. "You could probably use a nice warm bath after this morning. Are you allowed baths in your, uh, condition?"

I nearly snort at the word ‘condition.' "My condition? Do you always talk to women like you're from the 1920s?"

He looks surprised and stands a little taller. "I didn't mean–"

I wave a hand. I'm getting way too comfortable with a criminal, but it's hard to feel like Easton's a bad guy entirely. "I'm just teasing. It's fine. I just can't sit in scalding water like I normally do. Just normal hot water, unfortunately."

He turns the water on the tub, tests it, then retrieves towels and a robe for me, setting them out neatly on the end of the sink for me. "I'll wait for you out there."

"I'll hurry then, I'm sure you've got a lot–"

He gives me a dark look. "Take your time. We've already had a busy morning. I don't have anything going on that can't wait. Call out for me if you need anything. I'll hear you." He shuts the door behind himself. I can hear his shoes tapping softly against the hardwood as he walks away. For some reason, I find myself standing still, waiting, until I cannot hear him anymore before I start to undress. I haven't taken a bath in forever. I've been showering exclusively since I hit the third trimester because I've been afraid I would slip and fall, trying to heave myself up out of the tub.

But now I have this tub and a house full of people to call 911 if I manage to end up on my side like a beached whale. I strip down and step into the tub eagerly. It's huge. I turn off the water and lean back against the edge. It's not like my normal, standard apartment size tub at home. I can stretch and hold myself up by my feet in this one. I lean back awkwardly for a long moment, before I decide to give up and just lay down completely. The water isn't super high. I slide down until my back hits the bottom of the tub and am surrounded by warm water with only my belly and face above the low line of the water.

After a few minutes of this, it grows uncomfortable as Gremlin Baby begins to kick and move. I twist my hips to the right to see if I can lie without too much discomfort. It doesn't work at first. The weight of my belly pulls uncomfortably down and doesn't quite touch the bottom of the tub. I push myself up from the water and look around for a belly support. The only thing available are the towels. Guiltily, I take one and push it down into the tub until the weight of the water in its fibers forces it down to the bottom of the tub. With my support in place, I move back to my awkward spot, made slightly less awkward by the towel supporting my belly.

The water in my ears drowns out all the unfamiliar house sounds. It's like being a kid again. I loved to play in the tub when I was little. I would douse the entire bathroom with water while mom sat on the commode ignoring me and reading a book. That will be me in a few years.

I yawn, thinking about all the energy this baby already has. I‘m so screwed when it gains muscle development and coordination enough to move on its own.

I have no idea how I'm going to keep up with it by myself. What if it goes straight to running instead of walking? Do they still make those leash harness things? Will the moms of the world judge me every time I use it in public? I can't imagine the energy output this is all going to require just to keep another human alive. Especially one so tiny.

It's slightly pathetic how comforting a tub of warm water is at this point in my life. Am I that starved for physical touch? Laying in Easton's mansion, surrounded by men who are probably armed to the teeth, it's a little too easy to forget how batshit crazy this morning has been. I shouldn't feel safe at all, and yet, my eyes grow heavy as I lay there listening to the sound of the water. This is what gestation does to you–exhaustion rules every single decision. How did the cave women do it without baths? I wonder as my eyes get heavy and I drift off to sleep.

***

"Emily," a voice calls out from the darkness.

"Emily?" A hand touches my bare shoulder and I open my eyes, only to find myself staring into the solid black eyes of Easton. I'm still in the tub, cold water surrounding me while an orange tabby cat sits on the edge of the tub, licking its paw as if we're boring it with our silly human bath rituals. It takes a long moment for me to connect all the dots in my brain.

"Easton, I'm taking a bath!" I say,trying, but failing to cover everything and sit up at the same time.

"I thought you'd died," he replies testily. "It's been an hour, and you didn't answer when I knocked on the door."

I yawn again and take the hand he offers me even though I'm completely naked, huge belly and all. Easton Degarmo may be a criminal, but he at least plays a gentleman in real life. I have no clue how long he stared at me before I woke up, but at least his eyes stay fixed on my face as he helps me up and hands me a robe. He waits for me to wrap it around my body and then squeezes out my hair before draping a towel over my shoulders.

"Tracey brought you some clothes," he tells me, pointing to a green dress on the bathroom counter. "I'll let you get dressed." His eyes slowly return to normal as he meets my gaze one last time before heading back out the bathroom door. This time I do not make him wait. I change quickly, surprised at the new pair of underwear and the bra that is exactly my size. I dry my hair with a towel, dig through drawers until I find a comb, and head out into the bedroom, combing through my still-wet hair.

"There's a hair dryer if you need one," he tells me as I enter the room, still working the comb through my hair.

Any other time in my life, I'd take that as a hint, but pregnant me does not care. I'm sure all the women Easton's ever held hands with had perfectly styled hair and makeup, and I'm here mucking up that list. Has he ever had a project like me before?

I shake my head. "I was just going to braid it."

"Do you want help?"

"Help?" Easton is a werewolf, so he has a lot of hair, but it doesn't look like quite enough that he would have had to learn how to braid. "You know how to braid hair?"

"Like it's hard?"

I roll my eyes. "No, it's not hard. It's just not something most men I know bother learning."

He points to the ottoman in front of the loveseat he's sitting on. "Sit here and I'll braid your hair for you."

I sit down with my back to him, skeptical, but willing to let him try. If he really thinks he can do hair, then why not? I guess. I hold the comb over my shoulder and he takes it from me, then begins to gently comb through my hair. Most of it is already tangle free, but he hits a few snags here and there, apologizes softly and works each one out. I can't remember the last time someone did my hair for me.

I close my eyes and let myself pretend Easton's not just a friend. I imagine he actually likes touching me and taking care of me. That's probably taking it a bit far. I'm sure all the men I've ever shared a bed with have liked touching me just fine. Taking care of me–not so much. It's too much, even for a fantasy, to believe someone would enjoy that. Especially a man like Easton, a man who could literally have anything in this town he wanted.

Easton's fingers work through my hair, gently separating the strands until he's got the braid going down my back. In a few short minutes, he's draping the end of the braid over my shoulder and asking me to hold it while he hunts down a hair tie.

I watch him, amused, as he grumbles while opening a million drawers around the room until he finds a single black rubber band. "Sorry, it's not a proper tie. If you want, I can hunt down the staff and have them find one for us–"

I take it from him and tie off the end of the braid before getting up and walking to the mirror. It's not perfect, but it's pretty damn close. "This looks great. Where did you learn to braid hair like that?"

His eyes shift away and I can't help but smile. "Hey, at least what your ex left you with is less obvious and way more useful than a fetus," I joke, patting my belly.

He looks slightly horrified for a moment. "It's a joke, it's a joke. I promise. Geez, tough crowd."