Page 88 of Pregnant By the Playboy
We’re sitting at the counter in a hand-pulled noodle restaurant, watching the noodle maker slap the dough on his work surface.
“Good. Less overwhelmingly horny.” I smile.
“Sounds horrible.”
“No, it’s a good thing. I can focus properly at work and don’t think about sex whenever I see a banana...or let’s face it, all the time.” I sip my tea. “In fact, I’m not horny right now. Nope, not at all.”
“You’re full of shit,” he murmurs. “We’re sitting right next to each other, and your leg is pressed against mine.”
The truth is that my hormones have felt more under control lately...when I’m not thinking about Vince. But I think about Vince a lot.
And he’s right. Sitting next to each other like this, well, it does things to me.
I wish I could get to know him without obsessing about where this is going, but I’m seventeen weeks pregnant, and it feels like there’s a countdown. By the time the baby comes, there needs to some level of commitment...or not.
I’ve still got a few months, but I need more time. Though I want this baby, the pregnancy also makes things complicated.
But I never would have given Vince Fong more than a couple nights if I didn’t get pregnant, because he doesn’t seem, outwardly, like my type.
I thought life was supposed to get more straightforward as you got older. Instead, I feel more confused.
The one thing that’s straightforward, however, is that my body always responds to his.
He places his hand on my knee and slides the hem of my dress up the tiniest bit. I’m tempted to grab his hand and run out of here and head back to his place, but...noodles.
Vince rests his hand on my stomach. “How’s Baby?”
“Baby is fine. About the size of a turnip.”
He moves his hand back to my knee and leans in closer to whisper, “Turnip. Turnip.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to see if I can turn you on just from saying ‘turnip.’”
I stop myself from squirming.
“You claimed you weren’t turned on from sitting next to me with your leg pressed against mine, but maybe this will work.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Turnip.”
“It’s not the word. It’s the fact that your lips are against my ear and I can feel your breath.”
“You’re still getting turned on by me saying ‘turnip.’ And turnips aren’t even phallic.”
I snort with laughter as I squirm in my seat. I can’t help myself. This whole conversation is silly, but he’s so good at getting me turned on and making me laugh at the same time.
I’m about to whisper something equally dirty when the server places bowls of soup with beef and noodles in front of us. I sigh in bliss as the steam from the broth wafts toward my nose.
“You mentioned you’ve been here before?” I turn to Vince. “The sign out front says ‘grand opening.’”
“I have, and it’s good. That sign has been up for two years.”
The noodles are, indeed, delicious.
Afterward, Vince sexily whispers “matcha double fromage cheesecake” in my ear, and I’m not sure whether he wants to go to Cheese & Me or to bed.
“I have another idea,” I say. “There’s a Japanese dessert place on Baldwin Street that I’ve been meaning to try. You want to go?”
“Sure,” he says.
