Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(55)

“Fine." I’m probably going to regret this, but in this moment I don't care. I’m finally not sick and being around Isaac makes me feel young, like I really am my age. Some days I feel so much older. I flash him a grin and point at his empty shot glass. “Teach me."

Isaac eyes me. “No more red wine?" He reaches over the counter to where my wine glass sits, abandoned. “You can't mix wine and tequila."

“No more red wine," I say with more confidence than I feel.

He pours it in the sink. I gulp. Why do I feel like I'm in over my head?

Isaac repeats the process, lining up the shot of tequila for me. “Lick the salt, take the shot, and bite into the lime. Simple as that."

“Right," I repeat. I'm nervous.

Isaac comes close so he's standing right beside me. “I've seen you do shots before."

I narrow my eyes at him. I remember that perfectly.

I do what he says, tasting the salt, grimacing at the tequila, and puckering when I bite the lime.

“Well?" He asks. I lift my eyes to his and find him grinning ear to ear.

Actually, it wasn't that terrible. I like salt. I like tart citrus. The sting of the tequila...well, I could get used to that.

“Not terrible."

He holds out his fist, and I bump it.

As I watch, he sets up a second round, and we take it together. There's a nice, warm feeling coming over me.

I turn around, the edge of the counter digging into my back as I let it support my weight. “You know, there's another stereotype about Latino men..."

Isaac gazes down at me. “And what would that be?"

I swallow. “They’re incredibly passionate."

His eyes grow darker. “You tell me, Aubrey. Am I incredibly passionate?"

I lean my elbows behind me on the counter and look away. “Hard to say. It was a long time ago."

“I see. And there have been so many since me that I was swept to the back of your memory bank."

“Hardly."

“Not many? Was there someone special? Did some lucky guy get to spend time with you and my daughter?" Possession takes over in his voice.

“No. After you...well, I was pregnant. And then I was a mother to a baby. And things, you know, they, uh..." I look down at my midsection. “They don't really look the same after you have a baby." I run my hand over my stomach. It's mostly flat now, but there are telltale signs a life grew in there. My belly button isn't the same. It's bigger than it used to be. And the skin around it reminds me of a crepe dress my grandmother used to wear.

“Can I see?" His eyes are earnest. He leans forward.

“You want to see my stomach?" Did I hear him right? Maybe the tequila is clogging my ears.

“I want to see where Claire lived. I know it sounds crazy, but I missed seeing her in there. I missed out on seeing you with your belly swollen. I just... I don't know. I missed out on so much." He looks sad, so sad. I feel bad that I know what it was like and he doesn't. For a moment I wonder if somehow I could’ve tried harder to find him, but the thought dissipates. What more could I have done? Life dealt me the cards. All I could do was play them.

His sad eyes make me say yes. “Just remember, I'm not going to look like I did five years ago. Assuming you remember."

Using my hands, I hop to a seat on the counter and lean back on my elbows. Isaac steps in front of me, his hands pushing on my knees to split my legs. He steps between them and reaches for the hem of my shirt, eyes on mine.

My cheeks are warm. He’s waiting for me to give him a green light, so I nod slightly.

The fabric glides against my abdomen, and the cool air brushes my bare skin as he pushes up my shirt, past my belly button, coming to a stop just under my breasts.

I suck in a breath and turn my head. I don't want to see his face. What if he hates what he sees? He was with Jenna, perfection personified. I’m certain she doesn't have a dimple on her ass, let alone crepey skin on her stomach.

“Aubrey." He breathes my name and I look. His hand dangles out over my stomach. His eyebrows are raised, asking permission. I meet his gaze and nod. When his hand touches my stomach, I feel more than just it’s warmth.

“You're as beautiful right now as you were the night we met." His hand runs in a circle, searing heat over my skin.

“Of course.” I sit up, and Isaac's hand drops from my stomach. My shirt falls back into place. Everything is as it was before. Except for Isaac. He hasn't moved. He's still between my legs.

I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. Isaac's nearness is almost too much to take. I can smell him, if I squeezed my thighs together I'd capture his waist.

With a gentle push, he lowers me back down on the counter. My eyes open when his hand releases the back of my head and I watch him lift my shirt again. He leans down, kisses my belly button, then branches out, working in a semi-circle. His fluttery kisses descend, until his mouth is at the top of my hipbone. He nips my skin and goosebumps cover my arms. His fingers meet the waistband of my pants, one finger running the length, from hip bone to hip bone.

My hands are in his hair, the urgent sound of my zipper competes for space with the sound of heavy breaths. I look down, and he looks up, the stubble on his chin grazing my tender skin. It's just like it was the last time, our only time. He stands, lifting my butt off the counter with one hand, then starts to ease my jeans off my hips. I wiggle to help him, and he smiles down to me.