One Night Standards

“Hey, Li’l Momma…” Lyle peeks his head into the nursery where I’m humming “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and rocking baby bean.

I do this a lot now—sit in here and dream of what life will be like in two months when he’s finally here. Eight more weeks seems like a lifetime; then I remind myself thirty-two have already passed and reason that it’s actually not so bad.

Smoothing my hands over my enormous bump, I smile up at the man who’s made this incredible life possible. “Hi.”

“Can I show you something?” He’s still standing in the doorway, and his excitement over whatever he wants me to see is palpable. My heart rate picks up without knowing a single detail.

“What is it?” I ask, gripping the arms of the chair to lift myself out of it, but before I have my butt off the seat, he’s in front of me, offering me a hand.

“So, I was in the studio messing around this morning and recorded a lullaby for baby George.” His smile is dazzling.

“His name is not George,” I huff as he leads me through the house to his studio, only recently completed.

“I want to play it for you.” He brings me into the room where there’s a table filled with art supplies. “On your stomach,” he adds, reading the confusion on my face.

“Huh?” His explanation does nothing to clear up what he wants.

He flattens his front to my back, moves my hair aside and brings his lips to my ear. A chill moves through my entire body when his warm breath hits. “I want to paint a guitar on your belly.” He grabs my left hand and stretches it out. “And the frets on your arm.” Lyle nibbles my lobe while lightly feathering his fingers along the sensitive skin on the inner side of that arm. Suddenly this all seems very sensual. “And play it on your body along to the recording.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Livingston?” I ask, looking back at him over my shoulder with fireflies dancing in my chest. My voice is breathy. “Because if you are, it’s working.”

“Always,” he says, nibbling from my ear along my neck and finally placing a tender kiss to my shoulder.

His touch has me tingling all the way down to my toes. Excitement buzzes in the air. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

His grin is reminiscent of the boy I grew up with as he whips a stool out from behind the counter, motioning for me to sit. “You’ll have to lose the shirt.” My husband’s tone is less than apologetic. A Boy Scout, he is not.

“But I’m not wearing a bra.” I bring a hand to my chest, feigning innocence.

His head shakes. “You usually aren’t wearing a shirt either.”

“Touché.” I shrug, dipping my head side to side before ripping his threadbare tee over my head, leaving me in just a pair of pink cotton panties. If I’d have had any clue I’d be put on display like this, I’d have worn something sexy. But the fire blazing in his amber eyes says he’s not the least bit deterred by my less than impressive undies. “Everything okay?” I ask when he just stands there staring.

“Sorry.” He reaches out to tweak one of my nipples, causing my breath to catch, “you’re very distracting.”

“Should I go put on a bra?” I offer, though the idea is not very appealing.

“No, of course not.” His brow furrows. “I can control myself.”

I snort, because that remains to be seen.

“I said, I can…I just usually choose not to.”

“Then by all means, paint me.” I wave both hands in the air, motioning to his canvas.

“I’m not much of an artist,” he volunteers as he rubs my belly down with alcohol wipes to remove any oil from my skin. “So, don’t laugh at my elementary painting skills.”

“I will try my best.” I smooth a hand through his mop of brown hair when he crouches before me and brings the tiny face-painting brush to my belly.

“Just gonna do a simple round body. It’ll look better on your belly than the traditional shape.” His entire face is taut, his focus absolute.

“Okay,” I say, trying not to giggle.

“Why’s your belly tightening like that?” His voice turns frantic. “Is the baby okay?”

His obvious concern makes it impossible to hold back the laughter I’m fighting. “Baby’s fine.” I offer, trying to regain my wits. “I was trying not to laugh, so you wouldn’t think I was making fun of your skills, but it tickles.”

His posture visibly relaxes. “It’s insane when you tense up like that. I swear I just saw the outline of George’s butt.”

“Oh my God,” I huff. “We are not naming him George!”

“We’ll see,” he challenges.

“Yes, you will.”

We engage in a little stareoff before he gives up and reaches for his supplies.

“Okay, keep still,” he orders, getting back to work.

After drawing the outline, he colors it in using a little sponge, then retrieves a black pencil that looks a hell of a lot like— “Is that my eyeliner?”

He shrugs sheepishly. “That’s what the instructions said to use for detail work. I’ll get you another one.”

I force myself to keep very still while he draws the strings. It’s not too difficult on my stomach, but once he reaches my arm to draw the frets, I swear I’m about to come unglued.

Picture that scene from Dirty Dancing. You know, the one when he’s running his hand down her arm. I’ve never related to anything so strongly.

“You’re ruining the neck of my guitar!” He tries like heck to hold my arm straight and finish the strings, but we’re both in hysterics at this point. “Whatever,” he says, finally tossing the eyeliner pencil to the table. “We’ll have to imagine that this looks anything like a fret board.”

I glance to my left and crack up all over again when I see the end result. It can only be described as a complete disaster.

The paint only takes five minutes to dry, so it’s pretty well set by the time he finishes with his detail work.

“Try not to be ticklish,” he orders while dragging another stool up behind mine for himself.

With the touch of a remote, he dims the lights. Then he stretches my left arm out, holding it in place with his left hand, fingers positioned on the frets.

He sets the little remote on the stool between my legs and with the press of another button soft music fills the room.

My head lolls back onto his shoulder while he hums along to the intro, strumming the chords on my tummy.

Tears spring to my eyes at the sound of his beautiful voice. At the sentiment poured into each of his words.

He sings of meeting a young girl with sunshine in her hair and the oceans in her eyes who forever altered the course of his life. Of loving her beyond reason and the pain of nearly losing her.

My heart brims over with love for this incredible man.

The rest of the world fades away. In this moment there’s only him and me, existing in this bubble he’s created through his lyrics. A journey specific to the two of us.

“Never thought it was possible in one lifetime to feel such magic twice,” he croons. “Until the day that girl waltzed back into my life, Giving me more than I ever dared to dream, A life, a purpose, and it all revolves around you, little bean.”

Tears pour down my face as he sings of the future he imagines for us. A life filled with love and laughter. With struggles and triumphs.

His lips brush my lobe, and I swear I feel a tear hit my shoulder when he sings of how foolish he’d been to take a love like this for granted.

My chest heaves with sobs when he sings the chorus for the last time:

“You’re mine, through and through,

No matter what, you’re mine.

The both of you.”