“But can that be fixed?” I wanted to fix it. I’d do whatever it took.
Angie dipped her spoon into her ice-cream sundae. “Doctors said we need to keep trying, and if it still hasn’t happened in six months, we might have to think about IVF.”
“That sounds . . . like a big step.”
“It is. And I’m not sure I’d do it. I mean, I hate needles and it just seems a bit against nature, you know?”
Angie wasn’t one to worry about what was natural. “Will Chas’s health plan cover IVF?” I asked. From what I’d heard, shit like that was expensive and wasn’t the sort of thing to be covered by health insurance.
Angie shrugged, which indicated she knew damn well it wasn’t covered, which meant she might not have IVF because she and Chas wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“You know we’re going to have to have a conversation about this, so just give into it now, rather than after three months of arguments about it,” I said.
“What are you talking about, you crazy-man?” she asked, her eyes fixating on the hazelnut balancing on her spoon.
“You know what I’m talking about. You hate discussing money, but I’m going to pay for the IVF.” It was an old argument—I even lost the battle over the check for cheeseburgers at the diner once in a while. The only reason Angie’d let me buy their house was because I’d told her all I wanted for Christmas was to be allowed to buy them the wedding gift I thought they deserved.
“Fuck off. Chas would never go for it. You’re not paying for our baby.”
“Of course I’m not paying for your baby. I’m not a human trafficker, for Christ’s sake. I just want to pick up the medical expenses.” I sighed as Angie ignored me, looking around the small room at the other couples.
“Maybe it’s just not meant to be. God only knows what kind of mother I’d be. I sure as hell didn’t have much of a role model.”
“You’re not going to be your mother, Angie. You know that.”
She shrugged. “Who’s to say? They say we turn into our parents. And if that’s true, any baby I have doesn’t stand a chance.”
I rolled up a napkin and threw it at her. “Don’t you dare let your mother steal this part of your life from you. You’re not her. Look at the way you are with Chas—was she ever a loving wife in the way you are?” I slapped my palms on the table. Didn’t she see she deserved happiness? “You can’t let her rob you of your future—she’s done enough damage.”
She smiled at me and tilted her head. “Thank you, Sam. You always know what to say.”
I nodded. “And I’m paying for the IVF. I don’t want to hear about it again. In return, I’ll buy a new couch.”
She looked back, her eyes narrowed. “Did you buy a couch already?”
Busted. But worth a shot.
“I will if you say yes to letting me cover your medical expenses.”
“I think you already bought a couch,” she said. “What brought that on?”
“Angie, listen, I want—”
“I’ll talk to Chas. No promises.” Part of the reason I liked Chas so much was that he was a proud man who would do anything for his wife. Taking money from me was difficult, and I respected that.
“Okay,” I replied.
“Okay. Tell me about the couch.”
I leaned back, stretching my arms across the back of the red leatherette seat. “What is there to say? I bought a couch.”
“Just like that?”
“Sure,” I said.
Angie’s spoon clattered against the glass of the sundae dish. “Where?”
“Saks.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Riiight. You just happened to decide to go to Saks and buy a couch.”
I grinned. “Okay, if you must know, my art consultant took me.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. We were looking at some paintings and . . .” How was I supposed to explain what went down? “I asked her where to shop and one thing led to another.” Yeah, that wasn’t even close to how it had happened, but I didn’t want Angie jumping to any conclusions. “She offered to help.”
“Offered to suck your dick, more like,” Angie said and I threw a napkin at her. I could dream. Me on that big black couch, her kneeling on the floor, my hands gripping her hair. The pleather squeaked as I shifted and sat forward in an effort to disguise my growing erection.
“You can’t assume that everyone who’s polite and helpful wants to get in my pants,” I said.
“Why not?” She shrugged. “They probably do. Who is this chick anyway? Is she hot?”
“She’s my art consultant.”
“And couch consultant, apparently. It sounds like she’s consulting you very well.”
I chuckled and shook my head.
“Well,” she said breezily. “I think it’s good. You need a little ‘consulting’ in your life. I like the idea of you picking out furniture with a woman.”
That was not how it had gone down. “We’re not setting up house together, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, you’re just picking out furniture together. You’ve got nothing to hide.” She raised her eyes. “Like I said, I approve.”
Angie liked to tease me as much as I liked to tease her, but there was something in what she was saying that cut a little too close to the bone and I wanted to change the subject. “And you’re going to speak to Chas about the IVF?” I asked.
She grinned. “Better we talk about my womb that your love life, right?”
“There is no love life, Angie.”
Her grin dissolved. “Maybe there should be.”
Chapter Ten
Grace
I’d ignored only two calls from Sam since our shopping trip last week. The third one I’d answered because I needed to give him the details of the agenda for today. As I walked into the entrance of the auction house, my stomach somersaulted. I’d never bid at any of these things. I’d seen it done but never raised my hand and spent a lot of money in a matter of seconds.
I checked the time on my phone. Ten minutes early. We’d agreed to meet at three thirty, but it was raining and I’d worried about not being able to get a cab. I hadn’t wanted to be late. Anyway, at least now I wouldn’t have to wait in line for too long to register and collect our paddle.
I leaned against the dark wood paneling of the wide hallway, staring at the royal blue carpet under my feet as I waited. Perhaps Sam should bid? It was his money we were spending, after all.
In the five days since I’d last seen him, I’d thought about him more than I should. I’d also had tattoos on my mind. I’d never understood the appeal of having something permanently etched onto my skin. What if I got bored or changed my mind about whatever I’d chosen to mark myself with?
Nothing was permanent.
So why was I thinking about what design I’d choose and where I’d have it done? Why was I thinking about Sam holding my hand and making me laugh to take my mind off the pain?
“Hey,” Sam whispered, the heat of his breath against my skin.
I looked up to find him towering over me.
“You okay?” he asked, frowning, staring at me, analyzing me.