Matt got a good chuckle over my clover lights and adored my little light-up pumpkins. I’d even worn a big pumpkin-colored sweatshirt that said Mama Pumpkin, with a cute little green stem hat and green maternity leggings, with my fuzzy slippers, of course. While Matt wore a Pumpkins are my Jam t-shirt that hugged every muscle, leaving nothing to the imagination, with a pair of jeans that hugged his buns and thighs.
Let’s just say it had been really difficult to focus on the children.
We’d handed out candy and even shared some apple cider with our neighbor, Mrs. Cartright. She was a widow, whose children and grandchildren all lived away, so she adored us and our growing family.
During the next two weeks, no matter how close I tried to get to Matt, nothing “blew up.” Not his ego. Not his libido. Not his temper. Nothing. He was onto me and now locked both his bedroom and bathroom doors.
We’d fallen into a routine of sorts, living life and co-existing in the same house as if we were a real couple. A family. Except for the no-romance rule. Matt wasn’t my lover, but he didn’t feel like a friend, either.
He felt like something more.
I knew he liked most foods but hated pickles and creamed corn. His favorite color was green—go figure—and he loved reading. His favorite sport was hockey. He was afraid of heights and spiders. He rarely got angry, but when he did, you’d best not be on the receiving end. He was fiercely loyal and protected what was his. Yet he got teary-eyed over sappy greeting cards, and that endeared him to me even more.
He was a big teddy bear on the inside.
He discovered I loved French food, wasn’t big on vegetables, and loved bread. I didn’t really care about sports. I liked to read, but loved a good drama or romantic comedy movie. I loved to travel and was into art. I had a fear of drowning and hated rodents of any kind. I was also very loyal to my small circle and would defend them to the end.
Our conversations had started getting deeper lately.
“So, I know you have a big family, but I don’t know much else about them.” I was leaning back on our massive couch with my feet up on an ottoman.
Matt was giving me a foot rub while I sipped hot chocolate. I was twenty-six weeks and feeling enormous. It was mid-November now and chilly, so he had turned the fireplace on. His hands were huge, and I couldn’t help moaning. He gave the best foot massages. The human foot had so many nerves in it. Carrying around all this extra weight made my feet ache something fierce, and what his hands were doing to them was literally orgasmic.
His lips tipped up at the corners over my moans of pleasure as he switched to my other foot and began to speak. “Well, I am the middle child of five. Two older brothers who help me dad run the family pub in Ireland. And two younger sisters who help me mam run her catering business.”
“How come you moved to Mayflower?” My entire body felt so relaxed and cozy as I took another sip of hot chocolate.
“Me uncle wanted to train me to take over his pub, and I wanted an adventure.” He finished with my other foot and moved onto my calves.
“Do you have any regrets?” My eyelids grew heavy.
His gaze held mine captive. “Not a one, love. Not a one.” He paused a minute to study me. “Do ye?”
“Do I what?” I was half out of it.
“Have regrets.”
“Several,” I admitted. I tended to be more guarded than him, so when that came out of my mouth, I blinked.
He frowned. “I see.”
I was already shaking my head. “No, you don’t. My regrets aren’t about you. I might not have planned to have children, but now that I’m pregnant, I can’t imagine the idea of not having them in my future.”
He relaxed and covered my feet with the blanket then joined me on the couch, resting his feet on the ottoman as well. Our bodies touched from our shoulders to our feet. It felt natural to tip my head until it rested on his shoulder.
“What are yer regrets, then?” He leaned his head down to rest on the top of mine as I talked.
I opened up about my ex, and everything else spilled out. I told him about my grandmother, my parents, and my sister. My fears about giving birth and being a bad mother. Guilt about wanting a relationship with my birth mother. Betraying Grammy. Worrying about living up to her reputation and how to do her proud.
“Mostly, I regret ever letting myself be vulnerable,” I said softly.
“Letting down yer walls and being vulnerable is a good thing, lass,” his deep voice rumbled close to my ear.
“Not for me.”
“And why’s that?” His voice was filled with compassion.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Because I get hurt every single time.”
“How so?”
“Every time I let someone in, they reject me. It makes me feel like I’m not enough. I wasn’t enough at birth for my parents to keep me. I wasn’t enough for my husband to stay faithful to me. I’m not enough for this town to respect me.” My voice grew even more emotional. “And I wasn’t enough for your family to approve of me.”
“Hey, now.” He tilted my face up until I looked at him. “That’s not true, love. That was me fault.”
“It was?” I was mesmerized by his eyes.
“Aye.” He nodded slowly. “I fancied ye.”
“Y-You did?” I would have believed anything he said to me at this moment.
“Yes, but ye made it clear ye didn’t fancy me back.”
I blinked. “That’s definitely not true.” I thought he knew how I felt about him, but then I realized I’d never actually said the words.
“Okay, so ye lusted after me, but that was it. I wanted more than just a one-night stand. I wanted it all.” His gaze traced the features of my face. “I wanted it with ye.” He was so close I could feel his breath on my cheeks.
I swallowed hard. “Then why did you say I wasn’t the type of woman you would bring home to your mammy because I am divorced?”
