Page 77 of Frenemies

“I was hungry.”

“It had bread on it,” I pointed out.

Naomi tipped her head and gave me a look that silently said, “And?”

“You also want a pickle.”

“What’s wrong with a pickle?” Her face dropped. “Are you trying to say I’m fat?”

“Well, actually, you have gained a little weight—”

Her hand connected with my face before I could finish speaking. I rolled my jaw while rubbing my stinging cheek.

Yeah, I should’ve seen that coming.

Not only had I managed to stick my foot in my mouth, but I pissed her the hell off. Naomi was sitting back against the headboard with her arms crossed. The glint in her green eyes told me that I better choose my next words wisely, or the shoe across the face thing was going to become a reality.

“I’m not insulting you, baby.” I held my hands up and spoke in a calm, collected tone. “I think you’re pregnant.”

“I am not pregnant,” the curl in her lip faded as her eyes rolled up to the roof.

I gave her the time she needed. Sat back while she stared off in contemplation, then opened my soda when she began ticking off months on her fingers.

She ticked off three, by the way, which meant I was right. I knocked her up before I left. My sperm knew what was up—they burrowed in that egg before I even accepted that she was my woman.

Score one for team A.

Naomi wasn’t as happy about it when she finally came to the same conclusion I had.

She waved her finger at me and snarled, “If you knocked me up, Chase Mathers.”

Oh, I knocked her up, alright—got myself a hole-in-one on the first fucking go.

“I swear to god—I will remove your balls.”

“Or,” I argued. “You could marry me?”

I was dead serious—I had no hesitation about putting a ring on her finger. Naomi, however, did not seem impressed by my, in my opinion, romantic suggestion.

“You are not proposing to me right now.”

What was wrong with proposing to her now?

She raised her brow at me and asked, “What if I’m not pregnant?”

“Then you’re not pregnant.” And I’d knock her up on our wedding night.

Probably should’ve been nervous when she sat back and narrowed her eyes, but I wasn’t. We belonged together—I knew that. And if she needed a little more time to figure it out, that was okay with me.

“First off,” my heart skipped when she pointed at me. “I am not being proposed to in a shitty fucking apartment above a biker clubhouse.”

Okay, that made sense.

“You will get me flowers. Purple and pink orchids. Now you have to check out the florist because orchids are tricky, and I will not be brought some wilted ass flowers on the most important day of my life.”

Flowers check.

“And you will take me out to a restaurant. Not that fast food crap that you eat, but a five-star restaurant with proper waiters and a valet.”

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