Page 152 of Puck Prince

I poke at my salad with my fork and allow my brain to slide back into the memory of when Nicky was sick. The fear in Owen’s eyes was palpable.

I should’ve known right that second that his whole bachelor-for-life thing was bullshit. Or, at the very least, it’s a front for not wanting to repeat his own childhood. (Again, I relate.)

He loves that baby, and he protects everyone in his life with everything he has. Even liars, like me.

When Owen Sharpe walked out on that balcony, I thought I knew everything I needed to know with one glance. But he’s so many things I never imagined. Maybe being a father could be one of those things.

I hear a key in the doorknob, and I nearly fall backward out of my chair.

It’s way too early for Owen to be home, and Kennedy would already be screaming my name and pounding on the door with both fists.

I think of the note taped to Owen’s door, and my heart races.

Is it Summer’s ex? Does he think she’s here?

Or worse… Spencer?He found me. He found me, and he knows I’m pregnant, and he’s here to?—

My mind is tumbling over the what ifs when the door opens, and Owen walks in.

There’s a second of sweet relief before more blind panic.

I quickly shove the sonogram photo deep into the bottom of my purse and drop it on the floor at my feet.

I’m going to tell him, but not when he’s just walked through the door. I can’t assault someone with information like this.

I spin around on my stool. “You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know you’d be home early.”

Owen is still in half of his hockey gear. His hair is tousled with sweat. It looks like he stepped off the ice and came straight here.

“What happened to you?”

But Owen doesn’t say anything. He isn’t smiling.

He’s standing in the doorway, huffing like a bull that broke out of the pen. The way his eyes are zeroed in on me, I feel like a matador.

“Owen?” I start.

But he cuts me off.

“Are you pregnant?”

The growled question hits me like, well, a bull. Horns and all.

It knocks the smile from my face and the air from my lungs.

“What do you mean?” It’s a stupid question. I heard him. There’s no other way to interpret what he said.

But there are several options in front of me, ranging from telling him the truth to throwing myself off the balcony. All seem valid from where I’m sitting.

“I saw pictures of you outside of a clinic. They’re all over the internet.”

I go to reach for my phone, but it’s in my purse… with the sonogram photos. I fold my hands in my lap, instead. “Who was taking pictures of me?”

I was so careful. I didn’t even tell Kennedy, and I tell Kennedy everything. If she finds out about me being pregnant on the internet, she’ll never speak to me again. Though that might be the least of my problems right now.

“The paparazzi! Who else?” Owen is fuming. “Are you pregnant?”

“I’m— Stop yelling at me.” Now, I’m mad. I have no right to it, but who is he to barge into his own house with all kinds of spot-on accusations just because the paparazzi can’t let people live in peace? What they’re reporting is absolutely true, but that’s not the point.

---