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father in Thunder Bay, but the nightlife, shows, and concerts are too
alluring to stay away from. We like the noise here.
Once inside, I smell steaks cooking, and my stomach instantly growls.
We have a gym in the building, but I like the classes at Rika’s dojo, so I
braved the reporters for that today, but now I’m starving. And I need a bath.
Arms come around me from behind, holding my belly, and I lean back,
feeling instantly relaxed. His intoxicating scent surrounds me, and I need
contact.
“Help me get out of these clothes,” I beg.
He pulls my shirt over my head and helps me out of my sports bra. I’m
only six months along—our son is due in March—but I’m playing up the
helpless act. The more he touches me, the happier I am. And Misha doesn’t
like to see me mad.
After stripping out of my shoes, socks, and workout pants, I turn
around, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.
He looks incredible. I like this house arrest he’s been keeping himself
on. All he does is walk around the apartment all day, half-naked in only
lounge pants, listening to music and leaving lyrics in random places.
They’re written all over the refrigerator, on napkins, on Post-its stuck to the
walls—which he started doing when I freaked out about Sharpie on the
fresh paint in the bedroom.
It’s all a part of his creative process, he says.
Whatever. It works, I guess.
“Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”
I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and
then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.
I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully
when he starts massaging my leg.