Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

back and forth on her elbow, unconsciously mimicking her inner distress. "He thought it would be good for our son to have a sibling. He thought Spencer would be lonely. But I just couldn't do it. I'm a terrible, terrible person."

"No. You're human. You were probably afraid he'd love his biological child more. That's a natural assumption," Neva said in a calming voice.

Sighing, Jeanne sat back, crossed her arms, shook her head. "I couldn't stand the idea of being pregnant again. It was too much a part of the rape that I couldn't remember."

The same familiar sensations tingled now in the pit of her stomach, dread and panic and nervous clawing fingers. "I used to wake up in the middle of the night scared to death that I would give birth to a hideous monster. Silly, I know, but I've never been able to explain that to Yancey. Especially when it seems so simple to explain it to you."

Neva waved a dismissive hand. "It's not silly at all. You can tell me because you know I won't be hurt. You've been carrying this tremendous load of guilt for years. It had to come out sometime." She cocked her head and considered her friend thoughtfully. "How do you feel now?"

How did she feel? "Like I've just shit a bowling ball," Jeanne admitted, relief sweeping through her, cleaning away years of emotional detritus.

Neva sputtered into giggles, Jeanne joining her, until both women were laughing so hard they blew pie crumbs from the table to the floor—a fact that wouldn't have been so funny had both not reached for the same paper towel at the same time and knocked Jeanne's coffee cup into Neva's lap.

Neva gasped, jumped back, then continued to laugh while Jeanne sat horrified. "Oh, God, Neva. Is it still hot?" She rushed around the table, dropped down to a crouch and started wiping at the stains. A useless endeavor. She was doing nothing but leaving paper towel balls on the denim. "Let's get you out of your pants and get you some ice."

She was fumbling to tug the jeans down Neva's legs when she heard the squeak of the kitchen's screen door, and then a deep male voice saying, "Uh, I can come back later. Or I can come back right now with a video camera."

A silent second ticked by, and then Neva laughed so hard Jeanne lost her balance and fell back to the floor. She sat there, staring at the big man who'd walked in wearing camouflage gear over a very hard body and a tattoo almost as sexy as his shaved head and goatee.

His bright gray eyes twinkled with glee, as did his smile, completing a picture that left her unable to find her dignity or her voice. She had no trouble finding her appreciation.

And Neva wasn't hindered at all. Jeans around her knees, she made the introductions. "Mick, this is my good friend Jeanne Munroe. Jeanne, another good friend of mine, Mick Savin. We were just cleaning up a spill, Mick."

He reached into the refrigerator for a quart carton of orange juice, considered them for a moment before heading back outside, leaving them with a wink and a cryptic, "Don't let me get in your way. But if you need any help ..."

"Wow," Jeanne said once the door slammed shut behind him, because it was the only word she could find. "Who is he}"

Neva sighed wistfully. "To tell you the truth? I really don't know."

Neva had lied to her friend earlier. When Jeanne had knocked on the door at seven-thirty, Neva hadn't been staring into the fridge waiting for a meal to jump out. She'd been staring into the fridge and trying to decide what to do about wanting Mick Savin.

The sustenance he offered was the only thing on her mind. She was so very hungry for him, so wary of taking her fill. The battle between her appetites had been raging since she'd looked into his glazed eyes that day on the side of the road. Yet she still wasn't able to make up her mind.

Should she send him away before it was too late to do so? Or keep him around forever since it already was? She was falling for him. Stupid, stupid, stupid to fall for a man about whom she knew so little. And what a silly heart she had, thinking the things she did know were enough to make the risky tumble worth taking.

She paused in front of the guest room door, standing where she knew the floor wouldn't creak with any nervous shift of her body weight. The only light shining was the one she always left on over the sink in the kitchen. It reached this far, reflecting off the room's brass doorknob. She wouldn't have to fumble for it. She wouldn't miss it when she reached.

What a joke. If she went in, she wouldn't miss or fumble. Her body knew what it wanted. She just needed to make up her mind if this was the right thing. Or, if not, the degree of wrongness she was facing. And if she could live with herself when all was said and done. That was the biggest hurdle. The aftermath of her soul.

She reached out her hand, flexed her fingers, clenched them before taking hold of the knob. It turned easily in her palm, which was sweating, and she pushed open the door. She blinked, but she had no need. The guest room was no darker than the hallway. It was brighter, in fact. Mick had opened the shutters and tied up the shades on all four of the eight-paned windows.

The hardwood floor gleamed, as did the glossy pine furnishings. The white comforter embroidered with sprigs of blue flowers reflected the ghostly light, washing the entire room with a glow the same color as the pale blue walls. The atmosphere was eerily unreal and perfect. She could blame anything that happened on the light from the moon.

Mick stood staring out