Page 13 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

I laugh. Man, she's funny as well. "Good point."

"I used to watch old shows instead likeDawson's Creek, obviously, but alsoFriends,Full House, andBeverly Hills 90210. I loved how life back then was depicted. Before cell phones and social media, people did this weird thing where they'd go out, like, to a bar, or the beach, or wherever, and they would…" She leans in over her bowl, and I do, too, enthralled, waiting to hear what she's going to say. "Talk." I can't help it, another belly laugh rushes out of me. "I mean, can you imagine?"

"You're really funny."

"Eh."

She plays it off and starts eating again. Funny, smart, fascinating, successful, beautiful,andmodest. In the words of Chandler Bing, could shebeany more perfect?

Once we finish our meal, we head to the living room. "I don't have a TV," I say. "But I can buy one if you'd like, while you're here."

"Don't be silly." She waves the suggestion away. "I love the sound of the fire, and I've got my Kindle."

"As long as you're sure?"

She smiles. "I'm sure. But thank you."

My lounge set consists of a low-profile, brown leather sofa, a metal-framed coffee table, and two mid-century armchairs. I sit down in one of the chairs, leaving the couch for Schapelle.

"You can stretch your legs out," I say after a few minutes. I'm flipping through home renovation magazines, and she's curled up, reading on her Kindle, but she doesn't seem comfortable.

"Oh, thanks. But I'm fine."

I don't buy it. "You sure?"

She looks like she's about to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes her eyes and mutters something that sounds like, "No, I can't tell him."

A sharp crackle echoes from the hearth, followed by a long hiss, a log releasing trapped air. Her eyes drift open, glancing toward the fire then slowly making their way to me.

"Tell me what," I urge softly.

I wonder if it's something to do with her pregnancy, a topic I've deliberately avoided bringing up in case it’s too soon. I'm curious to know more, though, how far along she is, if she knows the gender of the baby, the state of things with the father, but I bite my tongue and wait for her to share whatever is on her mind.

She sighs. "Since I've been pregnant, my ankles have started hurting, so the most comfortable position is what I refer to as the beached whale position."

I suppress a grin. "I'm intrigued. Go on."

"You don't want me to tell you. Trust me."

"You're right. I don't." Her eyes snap to mine, and I say, "Showme."

She lets out a startled laugh. "No way. It's too embarrassing."

"You're my wife. There should be no secrets between us." I mean it in a lighthearted way, but it comes out a little firmer than intended.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can…If you want to," I tack on, to make it clear she's under no obligation.

"Urgh. Fine. But if I do this, you have to do something, too."

"Deal. What would you like me to do?"

"Hmm." She taps her chin. "Not sure yet. Can I bank it to use later?"

"Sure." I clear my throat and shift my eyes toward the empty part of the couch. "I'm ready when you are."

"I can't believe I'm doing this." She sighs again. "But you asked for it."

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