Page 84 of Promise Me Not

“Good morning, Superstar. Why are you sneaking around the kitchen with a frilly apron on when you’re supposed to be resting?”

“I have rested. For four days, I’ve rested. I’ve sat on the couch all day, each day, and I can’t do it anymore.”

“But your ribs?—”

“Are going to heal just as slowly if I’m standing as they will if I’m sitting.”

I must be frowning, because the next thing I know, Mason is pushing closer, his knuckle running along my forehead.

“Pretty Little, as much as I like you worrying about me, and I do by the way, you need to stop.” His eyes lower to where my hand rests, and small bubbles seem to burst in my belly.

“Worrying about you isn’t hurting me, Mase, and just because you say stop doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

He nods, his attention still locked on my stomach. Suddenly his eyes pop up, and a smirk takes over. “Sit down, girl. I’m about to hook you up.”

And he does.

Mason pulls chocolate muffins from the oven and bacon-wrapped sausage from the air fryer, setting it out between us. He toasts a few slices of bread next, without burning them this time, and brings over a bowl of scrambled eggs he had sitting in the microwave.

I can’t stop smiling as he comes over to join me. “This looks amazing.”

“Good. Eat. We’re leaving this damn house today, so we need to make sure the little man is good and fed.”

My head snaps his way.

“What?” he mumbles around a mouth full of muffin.

“You really think it’s going to be a boy?”

Mason eyes me for a moment, then nods, his features softening. “I think everything happens for a reason,” he says gently, his hand tentatively reaching out to cover my own.

My eyes burn, but I don’t let the tears come. I’m hit with so much at once, denial and anger weighing down on me with that one line of his, but as fast as those emotions come, they’re washed away by a strange sense of curiosity and hope. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

“You think Deaton died for a reason?”

A sorrowful smile points back at me. “I think you lost someone you cared about, but you were given something even more precious in return. So…yeah. Of course there’s a baby boy in there, just waiting to meet his mama.”

Mason’s face grows blurrier by the second, so I look away, focusing on my food instead, and when a hot tear streaks down my face, the bitter cold they normally leave behind never comes.

Because Mason reaches up and wipes it away, leaving nothing but the warmth of his touch in its wake. Like the whip of whimsical wings, a flutter dances across my abdomen, and my limbs lock at the sensation.

My gaze snaps up, catching on Mason’s.

“It’s okay,” he says faintly, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

What I’m feeling.

As if he is feeling the same.

He can’t possibly.

Hell, I can’t possibly.

Can I?

No.

No, no.

---