Swap Out (41 page)

I roll over so she’s on her back and it was either Scott or the wind, but suddenly acres of orange are falling over and all around us, and we’re completely, wonderfully hidden under her canopy. I bend my mouth to hers and kiss her hungrily, fueled by my smoking hot wife being alive and under me and Zoe seems to be right on board with my plan when she moans and slips her leg higher over my waist.

My hand smoothes up her thigh, cupping her ass and pulling her up into me as I drive my hips between her legs, and I don’t give a shit where we are or who’s watching because she’s so fucking sexy and she’s mine and I will do whatever I damn well please and not think twice about it.

“Okay, this is getting a little X-Rated, even for me,” Scott mumbles, and I groan.

“I say we shoot him,” I whisper, and Zoe giggles before pushing me off her.

“If anyone is getting shot today it’s you.”

It takes a second to find our way out from under the parachute, but once we do it’s only another moment before Zoe is unstrapped and then snuggling and kissing Evelyn like they were separated for months instead of minutes.

“Did you see?” she coos, her hands slightly shaking from the rush as she signs. “Did you see Mommy fly?”

“More like Mommy—”

Zoe cuts me off with a look, and I hold my hands up in surrender.

“She laughed and clapped the whole time, Zoe,” Scott says, handing me mine and Zoe’s wedding rings. “I think we’re definitely going to have to get her back in that wind tunnel, and soon, because she wouldn’t stop asking when it was her turn to fly.”

I chuckle as I put my black tungsten ring back on, then walk over to Zoe and slip on her finger her black diamond engagement ring and the second white diamond-laced band. She blushes a little, permits me one quick kiss and then I head back to where the mess waits. Scott and I start packing up mine and Zoe’s parachutes, and Zoe is riding high and I can’t help but to love the sight as she giggles and plays with our girl. My darling blue-eyed and brown-haired adrenaline junkie with a predilection to spicy food and an absolute distaste for any piece of clothing that isn’t cashmere or Egyptian cotton. Good thing her mommy spent a year’s salary on a wardrobe Evie won’t even touch a quarter of because she’s growing faster than her closet can keep up with.

Admittedly, when Zoe first suggested the name Evelyn I wrinkled my nose at it because I thought it sounded like a gray-haired grandma, but when she smirked and then told me it means “Beautiful Bird” I was sold. We don’t talk a lot about those first horrible weeks when we were fighting more than speaking, when threats were as common as insults, but I do remember them and I know she does too, and I think she named her as a gift to me.

Zoe…she’s given me everything I’ve ever wanted, and she’s mastered the art of doing it in ways I never knew gifts could be given. It’s why during our first signing class I interrupted the teacher two seconds in so I could learn to say “thank you,” then signed it to Zoe. I got laid that night in ways that should be illegal, and probably still are in some states.

“All right, I’m starving,” I say once we’re done getting everything squared away, and Scott jerks his chin at me. My eyes dart to Zoe and I clear my throat, then say innocently, “Babe, you want to get some Chinese food?”

“Ugh,” she says, then starts walking towards the car. “What do you want to eat, Evie? Ooh, how about some Indian food! Maybe we can get Daddy to cook it for us if we smile real pretty. Does that sound—” Zoe stops dead still with her back to us, and Scott smacks my shoulder. Zoe turns around, her eyes wide. “Did I just say I wanted
Indian food?
”

“Ha! I fucking knew it!” I burst out with a grin, Scott laughing like crazy even though he just lost fifty bucks and now has to hoola-hoop in the town square in a Speedo.

But Zoe’s been flip-flopping like crazy, peeing every forty-five minutes like clockwork, she can smell an eggroll from a mile away and last night I caught her sneaking a jalapeno. She hasn’t touched one since the day she gave birth and
still
she refused to listen when I told her we should cancel the jump because she’s pregnant again. But oh no, she’d know if that were the case and she’s just overhydrated and her taste buds are changing and she’s moody because of work and she threw up this morning because she was nervous about this afternoon.

Yeah,
that,
and she’s pregnant.

Which is totally not my fault and absolutely Zoe’s doing. Because there may have been a tiny little moment when we—
she
—goofed on her birth control thanks to the combination of a rough morning migraine and an afternoon spent in bed so I could offer up my favorite home remedy. And I don’t take credit for the discovery that orgasms can cure headaches, but I can sure prove it, and Zoe had a headache. Totally not my responsibility.

Zoe strides towards me, and for the life of me I can’t tell by her face what she’s thinking. Last time she slapped the shit out of me, and when she passes off Evelyn to Scott without missing a beat, I take a step back. But instead of a threatening scowl and a palm that flies, it’s a beaming smile as she leaps into my arms, her delighted laugh a shock of adrenaline outmatching any jump and any crack I’ve ever climbed.

I wind my arms tighter around her waist, sinking in the knowledge that I’m holding two and not just one. It’s my favorite feeling in the world.

“Ready for round two?” I whisper, and she sniffles before nodding her head.

“With you? Always…”

THE END

Coming Soon!

The sequel to Swap Out:

Hands-Free

Evelyn Roark lives her life as free as she pleases: reveling in the peaceful silence her Deafness graces her with while she pushes to new heights in her rock climbing, and her teaching schedule isn’t impeded by a relationship because she simply doesn't want or need one to feel complete. But when a charming grad student proposes that there is beauty to be found in having a partner, she's forced to rethink everything.

Thaddeus Hale seems to be the perfect man Evelyn wasn't looking for: signing with confident finesse despite his ability to hear, smart and considerate and family oriented. But after their relationship blossoms beyond anything she thought she'd ever want, Thad stuns her by putting a caveat on the size of their future. Spinning with indecision over a question Thad desperately needs her to answer, Evelyn wonders if she can accept Thad’s deal-breaker announcement. But if she does, will it mean sacrificing her freedom for his?

SNEAK PREVIEW OF FIRST CHAPTER ON

NEXT PAGE!

I hate being sick. Like really, really hate it.

My nose is all red and chapped, my eyes are fuzzy and half-lidded so I look like I’m stoned which I’m certainly
not
, and the fog in my head keeps me stuck permanently on the ground. No BASE jumping, no skydiving, no exceptions. The absolute best part? I’m so busy wiping at my snotty nose and rubbing at my Rastafarian eyes that I can’t even talk.

To me, being hands-free is life or silent death, because if my fingers are busy with tissues then I can’t sign. Just like having no verbal voice is keeping me from screaming at the asshole who just practically knocked me over on the sidewalk.

I was two steps out the door of the restaurant with hot tea in one hand and a steaming, disposable chalice of chicken and dumplings in my other, breathing in the icy winter air and the promise of snow when Mr. I’m Glued To My Cell Phone decided the best way to start my day was to crash into me. Tea? Spilled down the front of my hoodie and seeping through the too-thin black fabric of my pants, sloshing right into my socks and soaking my brand new shoes. Chicken and dumplings? Now sharing their mystical healing powers with the Salt Lake City sidewalk.

F my life. F it
hard
.

Because here I stand, my hands splayed out in shock and my nose sopping in some super sexy mucus, and since my hair is coming loose from my ponytail I think a strand of it just got stuck in my snot. And Sir Hippie Hair with his shoulder-length tresses, which are thick and brown and perfectly wavy and not at all frizzed out by the humidity, is scrambling to put away his cell phone somewhere inside one of the ten pockets of his overcoat while his mouth is moving too fast for me to read his lips. But I’m pretty sure he’s rattling off some lame apology. As though I care, seeing as I’m currently concerned with the sneeze brewing in my nostrils and scrunching my face up, my hands clenching into fists as my eyes squeeze shut and—

Awesome. I just sneezed, violently, all over a stranger.

My eyes slide back open but drift lazily, failing to focus as I wipe my face on my sleeve. Talk about gross. And unfortunately my vision is sharp enough that I see his shoulders sag on a sigh and his expression fall, all the way from green eyes and chiseled cheekbones to the slackening of his stubble-covered jaw, his now phone-less hands spread out in an apology as he mouths the same.

That “sorry” I definitely caught.

His mouth starts moving again at warp speed and I don’t even try to discern what he’s saying, way too light-headed to even try. Instead I wait as he bends down and gathers the two cups, then throws them away in the trashcan beside us and straightens. And once his eyes are back on my splotchy and Rudolph-esque face, I shake my head and mime, exaggerated, that I can’t hear him. His brow furrows.

“I’m Deaf,”
I sign in ASL, and when his eyes widen, I wait for the inevitable second “Sorry” from him.

It’s not that it’s foreign to me or that I don’t understand it, the ignorance from the hearing world, it’s just that it’s so damn annoying. Dealing with those who think I should be pitied, who scream their bad breath in my face like they think it will magically undo my “affliction.” Good luck.

Thanks to the power of genetics, I was born with a 98% hearing loss. Autosomal recessive is the name the doctors gave my parents, who both hear perfectly, as do my four younger siblings. Something that is actually quite interesting in itself since the genetic puzzle Luca and Zoe Roark possess gave all of us a 25% probability of being born deaf, but I was the only winner. In every sense of the word.

Since I gave the middle finger to both the cochlear implant and any hearing aids,
I
have the ability to ignore the squabbling of three sisters who I love more than life itself, but based on the shape of their mouths, I know are
loud
. I also don’t have to hear the angsty grunting of my brother who has the joy of having three sisters in front and one in back who are all determined to make sure he knows how to treat women since he’s barely seventeen. I am blessed to claim that never once have I heard my parents fight, which truthfully, they don’t do all that often, but you can bet your butt I thank God every single day that I also never had to hear them make up. Which, according to my sisters, happens all the time.

I, the disabled, got to go to a kickass private school where I was surrounded on a daily basis by people who are just like me, taught to be proud of who I am and that I am one of the elite fair few who have the honor of using a language that is as unique as it is beautiful, and it is
my
language. And most of all, despite being born with this so-called “disadvantage” I am rich in every aspect of my life. I graduated with Honors two years ago from the University of Utah, and the picture of me between my parents as I proudly held up my degree in Health and Physical Education is one of the first things you see when you enter their home. And my whole family hears the world that revolves around us, but there’s never been a conversation that I wasn’t a part of. Because when I’m home, hands never stop moving.

Whether we’re at the dinner table or even if we’re sending the littlest to eavesdrop into a heart-to-heart going on down the hall—wonderfully relayed back to the rest of us through the silent secrecy of sign language—I know how much my family loves me. Because I’ve never felt anything less than normal.

And okay, maybe it’s not normal in this day and age to have a family of seven when the world is dealing with an overpopulation crisis and natural reserves are dwindling down into nothing, but I’m pretty sure an over-sized kid roster was always on the To Do list for my parents. And maybe it’s not normal to still be attending Family Dinners every Sunday when I’m twenty-four, but so what? I’m happily single and I’d rather be weird and hang out with my dad on the weekends, going mountain biking and then heading home to drink a few beers and kick his ass at poker while my mom takes the rest of them shopping. It’s not like she doesn’t bring back stuff for me too, so I get the best of both worlds.

Although right now the only world I want to be in is one where I’m not covered in hot tea and shivering from the cold, where my food isn’t splattered all over the sidewalk and some guy who looks like a long-haired model who probably poses for stock photos of modern business executives isn’t staring at me.

And I’m still waiting for the irritating response of “I’m sorry” to come soundlessly from his mouth when he smiles.

“I’m an ass,”
he signs fluidly, and my heart skips a beat.
“Let me buy you another tea and…”
His brow furrows as he glances down at the sidewalk, then he looks sheepishly back up at me.
“Mush?”

I blink and shake my head.
“No thanks. I’m late.”

I walk around his side, wrapping my arms around myself to guard from the cold. But I’m not even a step away when a large hand lightly touches my shoulder.

I turn back around to find him closer than I anticipated. Wow, his eyes are pretty.

“Please, I feel awful,”
he signs, then swallows thickly.
“Not to add insult to injury when you’re obviously sick and I don’t want to keep you if you’re late, but I’d be happy to bring the tea and food to wherever you’re going. It’s the least I can do.”

His eyebrows lift hopefully, another smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and I duck my head when I feel heat rush into my cheeks. Please, do not tell me I’m blushing. All he did was offer to replace my food, which he should. Not a big deal.

His hand barely touches my elbow through my sleeve to gain my attention again and I peek back up.

“Is that where you’re going?”
he asks, pointing to the logo on my sweater, and why did I wear this today?

Because of freaking course I would be sporting the employee version of the hoodie for the indoor climbing gym three minutes from here, the one I just so happen to work at on the weekends when I run a Saturday climbing camp for Deaf and Hard of Hearing kids. As though I don’t get enough time with them during the weekdays by teaching P.E. at the same local Deaf School I attended, but I…yeah, I totally don’t get enough of them. Those kids are way too much fun. And climbing is life.

I bite my lip and tuck my hands closer into my body instead of answering, and he nods.

“Tell you what,”
he signs, his smile growing.
“If that’s where you’ll be then expect a delivery in about ten minutes. If not, then I hope whoever works there likes hot tea and mush. And I’m still sorry about running you over. Not running into
you
,”
he quickly corrects, his hands a little stumbled in their hasty movements and oh yeah, I’m definitely blushing,
“but for the mess. I’m sorry.”

A flattered smile tugs at my mouth, suddenly weirdly cool with forgetting the fact that he bowled me over on the sidewalk. This guy is rating a 9.99 plus on the super hella hot scale with his expertly crafted stubble and his gray overcoat just hinting at the black suit he has on underneath, complemented by a dark green scarf that is making his eyes scream all things glorious and he’s being really
sweet
for being so physically oblivious. Not to mention he signs with the ease of breathing and I have this insane urge to run my hands through his long hair to see if it’s as soft as it is thick, but I hope it’s just the buzz in my head that’s prompting that ridiculous idea.

I start to sign that he doesn’t have to bring me anything, but I get cut off by another violent sneeze that makes my lungs burn and chest ache like something just pierced my sternum. And that’s about the time that I remember what I look like: messy brown hair and stuffy red nose that’s probably dripping with snot; comfy, tattered work-out clothes soaked through with tea and chicken broth.

Sweet.

I groan at the cruelty of it all and the fuzziness re-claiming my head, and he pouts apologetically at me.

“Common cold or something more dire?”
he asks, and when I chuckle, his face lights up. Sometimes, I forget that people can hear my laugh. Just not my words.

“Not contagious, and I really am late.”
I shrug and he nods, but I find myself still standing here when he holds up a finger for me to wait and then starts searching his pockets. I shiver and hug my arms tighter around myself, waiting until his eyes and smile brighten at whatever he discovers in his breast pocket. Which turns out to be a flower.

It’s flat and yellow and some kind I’ve never seen before, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why he would have this in his pocket. But still, it doesn’t stop the smile from creeping onto my lips, or the blush I know is staining my cheeks when he presents it to me. Stupid cold, lowering my guard.

“I was hoping for a handkerchief, but
Oenothera caespitose, more commonly known as Evening Primrose, have their own kind of healing powers.”
He winks and my laugh catches in my throat, but I know good and well that my smile is plastered all over my face. Who the hell is this guy? His whole body relaxes, features softening.
“I’m T—”

“I’m late,”
I interject, then wave abruptly before turning and striding down the sidewalk away from him.

And I tell myself that I’m not going to look back. I’m so not going to look back because even though fate rarely lands a Mr. Right precisely on ones toes, the truth is, I don’t need a Mr. Right. I don’t need a Mr.
Anything
. Between my two jobs and my family, and my absolute comfort with where I am in my life, I’m one hundred percent happy. I’m not one of those girls who frowns when she looks at a bare ring finger on her left hand, and I don’t spend my time at bars looking for someone to tell me I’m pretty so he can get me into bed. I’m the girl who wants to be free to rock climb without having to check with some guy to see if we had dinner reservations, who wants to eat pizza in bed at midnight and to not feel self-conscious about the fact that I refuse to wear makeup since I spend my life working up a sweat.

But despite all that, I look. Just a glance, a tiny little peek to see if he’s watching me walk away because I may be a self-proclaimed badass, but I’m still full of pesky estrogen…

And he’s not there. A slight pang of disappoint rolls through me, but I turn my eyes forward and only get another step to wonder what that’s about before my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I pull it out as I make my way down the sidewalk towards the gym, opening a text message from my dad.

Oh, sweet daughter of mine…

I snort, then feel myself smile as I reply.

Ten grand.

Last time it was five!

I sneeze again in the middle of typing another text, and after I’m done wiping at my eyes and nose I see that I also sent it. Which equaled a garbled:
LasNFNHUARW

I roll my eyes, and not three seconds later does my phone ring. I accept the call, my dad’s laughing face filling the screen as he signs,
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I hold up my finger for him to wait as I push open the door to the gym, waving at Pete behind the front desk before I head into the back. I toss down the book-flat flower on the side table and flop down onto the old but wonderfully comfortable couch, propping my phone up between my bent knees with my head on the armrest.