Page 48 of Baby I'm Yours

“And I do not. Most emphatically. So…”

She nods slowly, tracing the rim of her now-empty mug with one finger. “Okay. Then, I guess the path forward is clear.”

“It is?” I ask, trusting she’ll clue me in.

She nods. “We move forward as planned, but with one very important change. From now on, the relationship part is real for…however long it lasts. And who knows? Maybe I’ll have a hard time getting pregnant, and we’ll have plenty of time to get good and sick of each other before it’s time to call it quits.”

“Maybe,” I agree, but I don’t believe it.

I won’t get sick of her. More likely, she’ll grow frustrated with me, the way other women have before her, and move on to someone else. But that’s always the way this was going to end. At least now, we don’t have to play games or pretend we aren’t feeling emotions far stronger than friendship or respect for our partner in this strange venture.

This way, we can just enjoy the time we have.

It might actually be…fun.

“And one thing’s for certain,” Elaina says, hopping off her stool and circling around the island, her mug in hand. “It’ll be way easier to fool your mom if we’re not fooling her. I felt bad about that part anyway. She’s such a sweetheart.” She stops in front of me, pushing out her bottom lip as she lifts her mug. “Please sir, I need some more.”

I arch a brow. “There were two shots of espresso in the first one.”

“Yes, but four is a better number than two,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And I run a coffee shop, dude. Do you really thinkI chose that barista thug life because I enjoy consuming a responsible amount of caffeine? No, I like to be wired for sound from seven a.m. to three p.m. Maybe four if I’m planning to stay up past ten.”

“You’re going to have to cut down eventually, coffee thug,” I warn as I take her mug. “Too much caffeine isn’t safe during pregnancy.”

She sighs. “I know, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Until then, coffee is my friend, and I really need you to teach me to use the fancy machine. I obviously have the normal latte situation on lock, but this thing confused me so much that I did the French Press while you were gone.”

“Stay. I will teach you my ways,” I say. “And then, once you’re dressed, I’ll take you out to brunch before I swing by the office, how about that?”

She looks up at me, her expression brightening. “Yeah? Like a date? Our first real date?” She frowns. “Or any kind of date, really, since I don’t think dinner with your mother really qualifies.”

“It doesn’t. And yes. A real date. Though I will be going over to Mom’s again later this afternoon. We do tea and cards on Wednesday, dinner on Fridays, and I take her out for a walk in the park on Sunday or sometimes a Broadway matinee if she’s up for it. She hasn’t been recently, but I got three tickets to The Music Man for this weekend. Just in case.”

Elaina takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “That sounds like fun. I’ve never been to a Broadway show. I’m happy to come play cards today, too, if you want. Or to give you guys time alone, whatever you’d prefer. I know you want to sell her on our happily ever after, but these might be some of the last memories you make with her. They shouldn’t all be fake.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I thought about that, and I?—”

“Not surprised,” she cuts in with a smirk. “You’re always thinking.”

I huff. “I am. Yes. And I think it’s best I do the Wednesday visits alone for now. But thank you for the offer.”

“Of course, no problem.” She grins up at me as she chucks me on the bicep with one tiny fist. “Look at us! We’re so good at teamwork when we’re not being big babies about our feelings.”

“It’s impressive,” I agree. “Almost like we’re emotionally mature adults.”

She nods seriously. “Almost, but I don’t think I’m quite there yet this morning. I need something to help me reach peak emotional maturity. And that thing is…” She taps a finger to her chin before casting a pointed glance at the still-empty mug in my hand.

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “Caffeine coming right up, my little fiend. I’ll bring it to you in the bathroom. You need to wash your face. Your eyeliner smeared while you were sleeping, and you look like you got punched in your left eye.”

She gasps, hand flying to her cheek as she backs away. “What? Why didn’t you tell me? Geez, Hunter. This is not okay! You should have said something earlier.” She turns, fleeing into the living room as she calls over her shoulder, “Don’t ever let me have a serious conversation with ugly face again!”

But, of course, her face wasn’t ugly.

It was beautiful.

She’sbeautiful.

She’s beautiful and strong and confident and tolerates zero bullshit. She’s also funny and clever and compassionate and seems to be the only woman I’ve ever cared for who can see the truth behind the mask I don’t even realize I’m wearing most of the time.

In my father’s house, that mask probably saved my life. Any show of emotion, any sign of vulnerability, was an excuse toattack. I disconnected the part of myself that makes a person’s heart show up on their sleeve when I was so young that I can’t remember a time when people didn’t comment on how composed I was, how unflappable.

---