Part 3 (1/2)
”Of course I'm sure.” She slides her hand up to my neck. ”And clearly you figured it out last night. Don't you think you'd be able to tell if I'd done it before?”
Yeah, I think I'd be able to tell, but doesn't every guy?
”You're the one who said I'm a terrible actress,” Liv reminds me. ”Really, Dean, I promise I've never faked it before. I was just exhausted. Nicholas had been pitching a level ten fit all day, my cake turned into a disaster, and my plans to welcome you home were a wreck. Honestly, I consider it a win that we got as far as we did.”
Can't say I agree with that.
”Stop frowning.” Liv reaches up to smooth her thumb against the crease between my eyebrows. ”You've always rocked my world hard, professor, and you know it.”
”Not always,” I mutter darkly. Not as recently as last night.
”Dean, I'm sorry,” she says again. ”I swear upon everything holy that before last night, I have never faked an o.r.g.a.s.m or anything else with you, but honestly, sometimes I can't get into it. I mean, we're so busy raising a toddler and working... Sometimes just snuggling up together in bed is better than the hot s.e.x we used to have.”
Again, not agreeing.
Liv slides herself into my arms and hugs me around the waist. The feel of her against me eases my frustration. I guess I'll consider it a win too, for Liv's sake only, but I hate that she can switch gears right in the middle of s.e.x-and then actually lose interest in what we're doing.
It used to be that f.u.c.king was overwhelming enough to block everything else out. Now it takes work for her to even stay focused.
”I promise, things will heat up again,” she murmurs, pressing her lips against my neck.
I bite back a retort of ”When?” because neither of us knows the answer to that, and being irritated about our s.e.x life when everything else is so good... well, I'm not such an a.s.s that I'll complain about it.
Much.
”Hey.” Liv rubs her hand over my cheek. ”I know you're getting all hot and bothered. I really think once Nicholas starts sleeping through the night, and I start getting more sleep as a result, we'll get back on track again.”
And if we don't?
Again I don't bother asking that question aloud.
”In the meantime, take your wounded male pride into the family room and watch Sesame Street with our son,” Liv orders. ”As an apology, I'll make you a very manly breakfast of eggs, black coffee, and thick-cut bacon.”
”Will you serve it to me naked?” I pull her closer.
She smiles. ”Hold that thought for a morning when our son is actually sleeping in.”
At the rate we're going, that'll probably be when Nicholas is a teenager.
”Go,” Liv commands, gesturing to the family room.
I feel her up a little-squeeze her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rub her a.s.s-just to make sure she knows who's still calling the shots. Then I obey her order and go to join Nicholas on the sofa.
He's transfixed by the TV, but he edges over to lean against my chest when I sit down beside him. He smells like sleep and Cheerios, his hair rumpled and his st.u.r.dy little body clad in train-patterned pajamas.
My tension eases as my brain makes the s.h.i.+ft to Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch.
”Sesame,” Nicholas tells me, pointing to the TV.
”Excellent choice.” I rumple his hair, feeling a familiar and yet still overwhelming rush of love fill my chest.
It's a different kind of love than the one I have for Liv. My love for my wife is powerfully intense and secure, bone-deep, the essential part of me. It's the solid ground under my feet, a feeling as inevitable as a sunrise.
With Nicholas, my love is almost scary in its fierceness and layered with so many other emotions I can't even define them all. Awe. Wonder. Fear. Amazement. Hope. Every day, every time I see him, the love surges anew, like a tidal wave submerging my heart.
”I make puzzle.” Nicholas shoves off the sofa, apparently having lost interest in the cartoon, and waddles over to the puzzle of wooden pieces scattered on the rug.
I sit on the floor with him as he fits the dinosaur picture together, his face set with concentration. Tantrums aside, he's a good kid-smart, curious, funny, creative. Half the time I can't imagine he was ever a tiny newborn, and the other half I can't imagine him ever being older than two.
”Hey, come talk to me,” Liv calls. ”I want to hear about your trip.”
”Come on, Nicholas.” I grab another puzzle and push to my feet. ”Let's go hang out with Mommy.”
He follows me into the sunroom, where the kitchen table sits beside the windows. After settling Nicholas on the rug with the new puzzle, I pour a cup of coffee and join Liv at the table.
As we eat breakfast, I tell her more about my trip to Altopascio-the process of damage a.s.sessment after the earthquake, the cataloging of archeological finds, the details of my proposal to get the site on the World Heritage list of protected monuments.
”Brought you some things too,” I say, going to the travel bag still sitting beside the door. ”I found Nicholas a set of Italian blocks and a pop-up book, which I'm sure he'll destroy in about five seconds.”
I bring the packages back to the table, handing two to Nicholas and the rest to Liv. I'd gotten her Italian chocolate and coffee, a culinary travelogue, and a print of a Tuscan village.
”This will look perfect on that wall.” Liv gestures to the opposite wall and leans in to press her lips against mine. ”Thank you.”
”Here's one more.” I push a wrapped package across the table to her.
She opens it and takes out a leather journal with hand-cut pages. I'd had it specially made at a printer's in Tuscany and embossed with Liv's name on the cover. For a few years, she's kept what she calls her ”manifesto” of thoughts and ideas, and I've noticed her journal is getting a little ragged.
”Dean, it's beautiful.” She runs her hand admiringly over the cover. ”Thank you so much. Did you get one for yourself?”
She eyes me pointedly, as always unimpressed with my own habit of scrawling things on the pages of a loose-leaf notebook.
I'm saved from having to answer by the buzz of my cell phone. I smile at Liv and get up to answer the call.
”Dean West.”
”Dean, it's Hans Klasen,” an accented male voice announces over some crackly static. ”Did you arrive home safely?”
”Last night, yes. Thanks.”
”Good. I'll be in Mirror Lake next week,” Hans continues. ”I was hoping you'd have a chance to meet, perhaps for lunch? We need to talk about the Altopascio proposal and your role with the World Heritage Center.”
”Sure.” I pick up my notebook, which I'd left on the desk. ”Where are you staying?”
Hans gives me his hotel info. ”Have you thought more about interviewing for the job?” he asks.
s.h.i.+t. Not a conversation I want to have right when I just got home.
”No,” I reply carefully. ”You know my priorities are the site and my work at King's.”
”I understand,” Hans says. ”But we continue to believe you'd be an excellent candidate for the position. Look over the doc.u.ments I sent you, and we can discuss it more when we meet. I'd also like your opinion about the Novgorodian dig and the ma.n.u.scripts.”