Page 169 of Trying Sophie

“Hey little lady,” I said, interrupting their little tête-à-tête. “It’s time for you to get washed up for bedtime. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Moira groaned and nuzzled her head into Declan’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna,” she mumbled against his skin.

“Tough luck, Moira,” he told her. “If you’re going to win tomorrow, you need to be well rested.”

“But I’m not tired!” she wailed.

Declan leveled her with a stare that meant business. “Moira Maureen O’Shaughnessy, do you think I like going to bed early the night before a big match either? No, but I do it because eight hours of sleep means I’m at my best on the field. You told me just now you want to win tomorrow. Well, are you going to put in the effort beforehand, or are you going to leave it all to chance?”

“Fine daddy. I’ll go to bed now. And when I wake up tomorrow, you’ll take me to the game?” Her eyes lit with excitement.

“Yes, my little pub girl, I’ll take you to the match tomorrow.”

“And you’ll stand on the sidelines cheering?”

“I’ll be louder than everyone else.”

“And you’ll wear your Ireland jersey?” she asked hopefully.

“And I’ll wear the Ireland jersey,” he answered, his lips twitching.

Moira liked Declan’s Dublin jersey just fine but she loved his Ireland one. I think it was because she had grand plans of someday wearing the same colors as she took the field.

“Okay mommy,” she said, reaching her arms out. “Take me to bed so I can get a lot of good sleep, just like daddy does before a big game.”

When I pulled Moira to me, Declan raised his eyebrows to the heavens and shook his head. If she’d gotten the very best of Declan, our daughter has also gotten some of his worst attributes. The child was stubborn as a mule and if you wanted her to do anything, it took eighty different ways of convincing her. The only person who could make her see reason was Declan himself. Then again, he often said the only person who could make him see reason was me, so I guess we had a nice, symbiotic circle going on.

* * *

An hour later, Moira having finally settled in for the night, Declan and I were sitting alone outside as the sun began to set. When he was traveling, I missed these quiet, everyday moments, how great it was to just sit and be with each other away from all of the madness of our hectic lives. Between juggling his devotion to team and country, raising one very spirited daughter, and running a successful pub and inn, times like this were becoming more and more infrequent.

“So,” he said, spinning a bottle of beer in his large hands, the condensation trailing down the glass to pool on the table between us. “How much longer were you going to keep me in the dark?”

His eyes flicked to my breasts, definitely larger than they’d been when he’d left for Australia almost a month ago. I didn’t have small boobs to begin with so my current state of boobage was quite the eyeful.

“It’s the boobs, isn’t it?” I asked, looking down at my rounded globes.

His eyes followed and he smiled salaciously. “God, I love your tits when you’re pregnant.”

And he did. I’d barely been able to keep him away from me the last two months of my pregnancy with Moira.

Trailing his eyes to my face, his smile sobered and his face became worried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry,” I answered.

I didn’t like keeping something so monumentally important from him, but I didn’t want him worrying about me when he was in Australia either. Or worse, telling his coach he couldn’t go at all. Because I had no doubt in my mind that’s exactly what he would have done … and probably without discussing it with me first. He loved rugby, but he was insensible when it came to his girls.

His eyes traveled down my torso to where my belly was hidden beneath the table. It had a slight bump at this point, but it looked more like I’d eaten my weight in burritos than I was carrying around a human inside of me. I’d never gotten this far with those two other pregnancies, but I’d really started to show with Moira around the four-month mark so any day now I expected to pop.

Mmm, burritos, I thought despite us having just finished dinner. I could put a hurt on an al pastor super burrito with extra guacamole and pico de gallo right about now.

My cravings this time around leaned decidedly toward the spicy end of the spectrum, whereas with Moira I’d wanted only potatoes. Declan had gotten a hoot out of that and had called her his little Irish spud the entire time she was in my belly.

“I was going to tell you soon, I promise. I just didn’t want you worrying about me when you were gone.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “What if something happened?” he asked, his voice strained. “What if you had another miscarriage and I wasn’t here for you?”

He had every right to be angry, I knew, but I was tired of him blaming himself for something neither of us could control.

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