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)
I wrap my arms around her on instinct, warm and protective. “If it makes you feel any better, neither do I.”
Annabelle laughs again, shoulders shaking. “So now what?”
My shoulders go up and down. “I don’t know—take another one?”
She does, and that one is positive too.
“Shit,” she whispers.
My nod is slow. “It’s official.”
She glances up at me, eyes wide. “Should we run and get more? Best three out of four? Best five out of six?”
“Babe, I think the universe is pretty clear.” My voice cracks halfway through the sentence. “We’ll find a doctor tomorrow if you want, and I’ll go.”
“Obviously you’d come.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. “You’re the father.”
“Yeah—of your boobs.”
Now she glares. “You are not taking this seriously.”
“Oh, I am. Very seriously. I’m mentally buying cribs and decorating the nursery.”
“You don’t have a nursery.”
“No, but I will.”
She presses her fingers to her temples. “You’re giving me a headache with all your excitement. Why aren’t you freaking out?”
Good question. Maybe because I can afford a baby. I can afford to take care of her, move her if I need to. Medical expenses? No problem. Supplies? I’m your guy.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “If it’s a boy, I can buy him a tiny kilt!”
She throws her hands in the air. “Why would a baby need a kilt?”
I blink. “Because I’m Scottish?”
She gives me a look. “But is the baby Scottish?”
“By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be eating shortbread and quoting Braveheart. You think I’m joking, but my nan would die and rise from the grave if I didn’t honor the family clan.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you even a little bit freaked out?”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Annabelle, we could name him Lachlan. It means ‘from the land of lakes.’ That’s majestic as hell.”
She rubs her forehead, growing increasingly frustrated with me. “And what if it’s a girl?”
"She can be Lachlyn too.” I lean closer, all solemn eyes and exaggerated accent.
“Dear God . . .” she breathes. “Are you being serious?”
Very. “Do you have any idea how cute little kids are in those little clog dancing wigs?”
Annabelle eyeballs me. “Are you talking about Irish dancing? That’s not the same.”
Oh. My shoulders slump, dejected. “Good point. I may be getting carried away.”
“You think?” She shoulders her way past me and goes into the bedroom.
I trail after her, unbothered by the sass she’s sending my direction, the twitch of amusement she’s trying to suppress. Annabelle flops down on the bed with a dramatic sigh, one arm flung over her eyes like she’s a damsel in distress.
I settle beside her, propped up on one elbow. “You know this whole thing might be a surprise, but it doesn’t mean it’s not incredible.”
She doesn’t say anything, just lifts the arm off her eyes and turns her head to look at me.
My gaze drops instinctively to her stomach. Flat, soft, completely unchanged—and yet everything feels different now.
“Can I . . .” I pause, hand hovering tentatively. “Can I touch?”
She arches a brow. “Touch what? There’s nothing to feel yet.”
“Humor me,” I say quietly.
She nods her permission. I gently lift the hem of her shirt, exposing a sliver of bare skin. Her stomach rises and falls with each breath, smooth and warm beneath my palm as I place it there.
Annabelle watches me, eyes unreadable.
“I just wanted to say hi,” I whisper to her tummy. “You know. To our future bagpipe prodigy or Highland princess.”
She lets out a choked laugh, swatting at me half-heartedly. “It’s too early to make plans and get excited. I’m barely pregnant.”
Doesn’t matter. I’m excited—and nothing is going to change that. Not nerves, not timing, not the total and complete lack of a game plan. I feel like my whole life just cracked open and bloomed into something wild and terrifying and kind of amazing. And holy shit . . . wait until I tell my parents.
That’ll be a conversation.
I’ve been putting it off for days. We don’t talk much—not because anything’s wrong or I don’t love them or whatever, it’s just . . . life. I’m busy. They’re busy. We do text, the obligatory holiday call, the rare check-in when I get featured in the press. Usually I give them a heads-up when something big is about to happen (like the time I got traded), like a strategically timed voicemail so they don’t leak news to their gossipy friends.
I assume they’ve seen headlines floating around; I’m sure they wrote them off, rolled their eyes, chalked it up to the usual clickbait. Which means they probably think the story about Annabelle is complete and total bullshit, which means we have to call.
Joke’s on them.
Not only are we kind of married, but also now she’s pregnant.
God, they’re going to absolutely lose their fucking minds.
I can’t wait.
“I just thought of something,” I tell her. “Now that you’re knocked up, we can fuck bareback as much as we want . . .”