“Sedgewick.”
“Hell no.”
“Nicholas.”
I pause again. “Nicholas is a medieval name?”
“Lots of medieval Nicholases. There was a Pope Nicholas who started an artistic revival in Rome. There was a sculptor, a goldsmith, a philosopher...”
“Hmm.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it? Nicholas West.”
I don’t respond immediately, for no other reason than to make him sweat a little. Finally I nod. “It does sound good.”
Dean looks almost surprised. “You agree?”
“Nicholas West or Isabella West.” My heart thumps as I picture a pink-cheeked baby. Our pink-cheeked baby. Nicholas or Isabella.
“That’s it?” Dean’s grinning like he just won an award. “Those are the names?”
“Those are the names.” I push away from the computer and go to lower myself into his lap. “Nice work, professor.”
“You too, beauty.” He rubs my belly in slow circles and then down between my legs.
“You sure you want to?” I ask as a warm tingle slides through my blood.
“As long as you feel okay.”
“I feel fine, but I am gaining weight, you know.”
“So?”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course not.” Dean pushes a lock of hair away from my shoulder. “What, you think you won’t turn me on when you’re bigger?”
“I still have a long way to go. It could get… awkward.”
“So we’ll figure it out.” He pulls me to him and eases his hand between my thighs again.
“You know, there’ll probably be a time when we won’t be able to manage much position-wise,” I warn him. “Or at least, I won’t. And I have no idea what happens hormonally when things progress. Maybe my sex drive will disappear.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when Dean starts laughing.
Before I can scowl at him, he pulls me closer for a long, deep kiss. I sigh and settle against him. Just as we’re getting into it, a knock sounds on the door. Dean mutters a noise of irritation as we separate. He pushes to his feet and goes to open the door.
Paige is standing in the hallway, her hands on her hips. She glances past Dean to me.
“What is it, Paige?” he asks.
“Archer called. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olivia
have an urge to escape, like a rabbit who senses an approaching wolf. Dean hasn’t seen his younger brother in five years, and I’m part of the reason why. If not the reason. I’d met Archer West once, during Thanksgiving weekend the first year Dean and I were together.
We arrived at the San Jose airport in late morning the day before Thanksgiving. Lines of traffic moved sluggishly over the highway. We drove out of San Jose and into the wealthy computer-money suburbs of Cupertino, Saratoga, and Los Gatos.
The sheer expanse and beauty of the West home was totally foreign to me, the girl who’d lived in cramped apartments and slept on sofas in strangers’ living rooms.
Richard West was a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and an almost tangible shield of reticence. Joanna West looked like she’d been to finishing school with her model-like posture, coiffed hair, and designer suit. I might have had a hard time imagining her capable of an affair if I didn’t know quite well that people concealed all sorts of things behind their facades.
Everything about the West house and family seemed perfect. Direct from the glossy pages of a magazine.
“What do you do, Olivia?” Joanna West asked me during dinner.
I glanced at Dean. “Er, I work in a coffeehouse. Jitter Beans. And I’m majoring in literature and library sciences.”
“Oh. How nice.” She smiled vaguely, and that was the end of that conversation.
“And what do your parents do?” Richard West asked.
“My father passed away years ago, and my mother is in travel,” I said. “This fish is delicious. Whatever did you put in the sauce?”
Later that night as Dean and I were getting ready for bed, I said, “I’m not sure they like me.”
“Doesn’t matter. I like you.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. No one can meet their expectations.”
Including him. I knew that without needing to ask, but I still didn’t fully understand why. Dean West was the epitome of the perfect, successful son. Not even Joanna and Richard West could say a word against him.
Reminded me of me, I thought as I tucked myself against Dean in bed. I’d been the same way when I lived with Aunt Stella and Henry. Just in a far less prominent way.
I slept restlessly that first night, feeling out of place in the huge bed, waking at every sound the house made. Even the silence was strained, as if it were stretched tight.