Page 68 of Crossing Lines

That causes a deep rumble. “Don’t force yourself to fuck him.”

“Kross,” I groan in frustration. “He’s my man.”

“Your man? All right, Davia. See you when I see you.” He hangs up. I know he’s upset because he didn’t use his nickname for me.

“Dammit.” I slump back in the chair with a moan. The sudden buzz makes me grab the phone fast. My shoulders wilt when I realize it isn’t Kross calling back. It’s a text from my mom. She wants to meet for lunch.

Pushing Kross from my mind, I move through the morning, working hard until lunchtime. Then I drive to the restaurant.

Mom smiles as I approach the table. “Hi, daughter.”

“Hey, Mom. Thanks for texting me.”

She shrugs. “You said we should spend more time together. We’re both busy, so I figured we could sneak in something on our breaks. I even made sure they have vegan food.”

“Thank you.” I look through the menu.

“So, is everything sorted with Jamir?” she asks before drinking.

“Uh, yeah.” The only man flooding every space is Kross. Just a thought of his touch makes my body shiver. “Ahem.”

“You okay?” Mom checks, scowling.

“Yes.”

I order veggie dumplings and a non-alcoholic drink when the waitress comes over.

“Why did you go vegan?”

Her question confuses me. “Uh, I was getting sick, remember?”

She knits her brows together. “Really? I don’t remember that. I thought it was a friend at school who convinced you or something.”

“Wow.” I sip some of the sweet drink. “Doctors couldn’t figure out why. They thought it might have been on my father’s side. But there’s no information on him.”

She clicks her tongue and flips her wavy hair off her shoulder.

“Who’s my father, Mom?”

“Geez,” she grates. “Why are you asking that?”

“I figured I’d try.”

“Davia.” She picks up her glass. “I don’t want to talk about him. He didn’t want a kid. You’re better off not knowing.”

“Mom, that’s—”

“I’m pregnant.” Everything fades around us.

“Sorry, what?”

“Six weeks,” she says with a smile. “That’s really why I asked you to meet me.”

“Um…” I can’t think straight. I pick up my drink and set it back down. “You’re forty-three. You were drinking wine the other night.”

“That’s fine,” she dismisses. “I’m still young at forty-three. My doctor says I’m in great health and can go through with the pregnancy. Aren’t you excited for me? You’ll be a big sister.”

“Areallybig sister,” I point out. “I’m twenty-eight.”

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