Page 45 of Nine Month Contract
I knock and let myself in again, grateful to find Trista where I left her. Sitting on the edge of her bed, I watch her carefully as she swallows the pills with a Gatorade and accepts the flakey croissant. After she takes a few bites, she looks up at me with mirth dancing in her eyes. “Remember that time you carried me from my bathroom to my bed?”
I frown and glance over at the bathroom door just ten feet away from us. “It just happened. Of course I remember.”
“That was really impressive,” she says with a giggle, and I feel the heaviness in my chest lift as the light returns to her eyes. Her voice hitches low when she adds, “You are strong like a bull.”
I rub the spot where she pinched me, certain a bruise is already forming. “You’re pretty strong yourself.”
“Sorry about that, but I’m not a delicate female used to being manhandled, Mr. Mountain Man.” Her sleepy eyes look stunning in the light streaming in from the large windows above the bed.
“You were weak and could barely stand from the floor. What did you expect me to do? Just watch you struggle?”
She shrugs as she nibbles on her bread. “This croissant is delicious.”
“It’s from the Mercantile,” I reply with a satisfied nod. “They get them fresh from a bakery in Boulder every morning. I’ll bring you one every day if you think it’ll help.”
Her eyes blink rapidly with confusion. “Are you for real?”
“Yes, I’m for real,” I state firmly, staring down at her in frustration. “I want to help, Trista. I’ve been giving you space these past couple of weeks, but I hate that you were sick and struggling on your own. This baby and what it’s doing to your body is as much my responsibility as it is yours.”
She sets her food down and moves to sit up, so I quickly move the pillow until it rests behind her.
“Wyatt, I’m used to taking care of myself,” she offers, clearly trying to be polite, but she’s giving off a coldness that I don’t like. “Getting my meds and all this was kind of you, but eventually, I could have made it to town and got this all myself.”
“But why would you want to when I’m literally right there?” I point toward the direction of my cabin.
Her eyes fixate on the bread in her hands. “Because I don’t like people taking care of me.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a strong girl.” Her brows knit together as she shrugs dismissively. “And I’ve been taking care of myself since I was sixteen. And I was making my own breakfasts long before that. No offense, but…I don’t need you.”
My heart stops as I absorb the words she just shared. There’s no question Trista is fucking strong. It’s what I like most about her. It’s what made me feel so confident about doing this surrogacy thing with her. But that glimpse she’s given me into her past pains me. I can’t imagine not having a parent make me breakfast. It’s such a simple, basic thing that should be a given. Literally the bare minimum.
I inspect the lines on Trista’s face a bit more, as if they’ll reveal more about her. Perhaps this has to do with why she never wants children of her own? Maybe there’s more to her story than her love of animals.
And I get that Trista doesn’t need me. But what does she expect? I jizz in a cup, she gets pregnant with my baby, and that’s it? I see her in nine months to collect my purchase? That’s not how I want this to go. Not now that I’ve gotten to know her a bit. I want her to feel supported through all this…especially after what she shared with me.
I eye her warily. “Just so you know, I’m famously not good at doing nothing.”
“I’m gathering that.” Her lips press off to one side. “But you tending to me like this wasn’t a part of our contract.”
“Neither were ranch cups nor Tylenol syringes, so I guess I thought we were making up our own rules here.” My voice ventures on a little desperate, so I try to soften my approach. “Living next door to eachother doesn’t mean we only need to see each other during appointments or in passing at the barn. If you need me, all you have to do is ask. You’re never going to feel like a burden to me.”
Her head tilts as she stares up at me with shock and awe all over her face, and I swear her eyes redden around the edges like she’s fighting off tears. Has no one really ever tried to help her like this before?
My voice is soft when I add, “It’s my hope that maybe we can become friends through all of this.”
She swipes quickly at her eyes as her lips twitch with a poorly concealed smirk. “I don’t have any friends who look like you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, feeling oddly offended.
“Tall, tattooed, bearded, and hotter than the Fourth of July?” Her gaze drifts down my body, and she shudders slightly. “Yeah, no…I don’t have friends like you, Wyatt.”
The rush of satisfaction that surges through me at the fact that she just told me she’s attracted to me is embarrassing. I’m pushing forty years old. I should not be having some sort of prepubescent jolt of giddiness zap through me when I realize the hot girl at school likes me back. I am not in grade school, and having a crush on my surrogate is out of the question…even if I do hate that fucking name for her.
The problem is, Trista has been a hard one for me to get a read on. When I go out to bars with my brothers, I know instantly if a girl wants to fuck me. The eye contact, the body positioning. It’s almost scientific how easy it is for me to tell if a girl is interested, even if she’s trying to play it cool. It’s a game that I play well.
But Trista keeps her cards close to her chest. She doesn’t show emotion easily, so up until this moment, I couldn’t tell if she liked me or hated me or, even worse….was indifferent to me. I was pretty sure my most appealing asset to her was the fact that I had a barn for her pig to live in.
