Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Then make the slow, funeral-march-style walk from the bedroom to the living room, where Maverick is sitting on the couch calmly. Relaxed. One sock on, one sock off. Legs stretched out, feet up on the coffee table. Not a care in the world . . .
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey.” He pats the cushion next to him. “You feeling okay?”
That’s the problem—I have no idea how I’m feeling.
For a few glorious minutes, when we were tangled up on the couch and I was grinding on him like a woman with no secrets, I forgot. Forgot about my missing period. Forgot about the pee stick in the trash. Forgot about our half-joking conversation about having kids.
And I definitely do not give a crap about the media.
Which—to be fair—hasn’t impacted me yet. We’re still living in our blissful bubble.
Call me naive, but I don’t have much of a public social media presence even though I have a small business, and let’s be honest: I come from such a small town, nobody there is going to care that I accidentally married a professional athlete. Right?
Just the men, maybe?
No one will care . . .
Or is this me being naive?
Being a resort town, we’ve had our fair share of sightings of famous people over the years, because they come to Star Lake to escape. Like the time Denzel Washington rented a cottage and was spotted in Loon Landing Café grabbing a latte with his wife. Or the time that one country singer, whose name I can’t remember, made a pit stop for a night on his way to Portland.
No one bothered them.
My point is, Star Lake is a town where no one bothers anyone and residents don’t lock their car doors and we sleep with our windows open in the summer.
So no one will care.
I do my best to convince myself of this as I plop down next to him, the weight of the world suddenly on my shoulders. We stare at the TV, neither of us actually watching it, before I blurt out, “I didn’t get my period.”
Maverick turns his head so fast I’m genuinely concerned his spine just filed a complaint. “What?”
I clear my throat, gaze fixed straight ahead. “I—I was late. Like, really late. And I freaked out and went to the pharmacy—”
“Okay.” His voice is gentle, his expression unreadable. “Keep going.”
“Anyway. It’s probably nothing, but do you think I should take a, um . . .”
I can’t make eye contact. “Test. For, um. That.”
The word pregnancy lodges in my throat; I’m unable to say it.
His expression softens, lips twitching at the corners like he’s trying not to smile. Or panic. Honestly, it could go either way. “That sounds like a good idea, if you’re late,” he says slowly. “Do you already have one?”
“Oh! Yes, yes I do.” I wave a hand in the direction of the hallway, like it’s no big deal. Like I didn’t already use one and toss it haphazardly into the guest bathroom wastebasket like the rookie I am.
Maverick’s eyebrows lift. “Smart.”
He is so supportive!
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, pushing to my feet, heart thumping like a jackhammer. “I’ll just, you know. Go take it.” I pause, looking down at him. “Wanna come with? For moral support?”
His mouth twitches again, totally amused. “You want me to watch you pee?”
“Never mind,” I mutter, fleeing toward the bathroom, stomach flipping. “Forget I said anything!”
I am so embarrassed. But he’s already up and off the couch and following behind me to his bathroom.
I hold up a box. “Only if you’re prepared to witness something deeply undignified.”
He smirks. “Annabelle, I think we’re past that.”
I groan, but he follows me in, leaning against the doorjamb like this is some romantic team-building exercise instead of a potential life-change-involving pee.
“Okay.” I gesture awkwardly to the toilet. “So . . . I guess I just . . . go?”
He grins. “You want me to turn around?”
“No, you can . . . I mean, whatever.”
Jesus, what was I thinking when I blurted out the I invite for him to participate?
I hike down my leggings, sit, and try to pee as discreetly as possible—which is freaking impossible. Peeing quietly is a myth. Every drip feels like it echoes off the tile like a trumpet blast.
He pretends to study the ceiling, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants. “This is surprisingly not the most awkward thing we’ve done.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Maverick laughs in reply, deep and amused, like I’ve said something funny when I was being totally serious.
I cap the stick, wrap it in toilet paper, and set it on the counter, not worried in the least because I already know what the outcome is going to be.
Negative. Like the last one.
It’s fine. This is just confirmation. Insurance. Visual peace of mind.
Still . . .
I find myself glancing sideways at Maverick, who’s still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, looking maddeningly relaxed for someone potentially about to be thrust into surprise fatherhood. Even though I know he’s not.