Page 55 of Playboy

“That’s…” He chuckles, his face finally relaxing. “That’s sweet.”

“I guess. Whatever.” Emotion rises in my throat, but I choke it back. “Anyway, I wanted to wait until after the doctor confirmed before I mentioned it. Now that we have, I don’t know, I was freaking out, and I needed?—”

“Your brothers,” he finishes for me.

Warmth blooms in my chest. “Yeah.”

Eyes swimming with genuine concern, he brings his phone closer. “How are you feeling about it all?”

My stomach tightens, and that pesky vulnerability rises in me again. “Honestly?”

“Always.”

“Nervous,” I admit. So fucking nervous.

“That’s understandable. I was beyond nervous when I found out about Oliver.”

“I just don’t think I’ll be very good at this.”

He doesn’t bat an eye. “You will.”

“And I barely know the father.”

“He’s a good kid.”

My only response is a glare.

He laughs. “I stand by the fact that he’s a kid. But that doesn’t change that he’s a good one. He’ll do the right thing.”

I huff. “Don’t you dare go putting any thoughts into his head. I don’t want him to feel obligated to do anything.”

“Hannah.” His tone is the same one he uses when Oliver tries to go for the extra scoop of ice cream or argues about brushing his teeth.

“I’m serious.” Shoulders back, I keep my voice even. “No one forced you and Jen to get married. We’re not putting that on Daniel. Like you said, he’s a kid. I don’t need another one to take care of. I’ll have more than enough work being a mother of one.”

With a sigh, he gives me a comforting half smile. “You’re going to be fantastic.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

He barks out a laugh. “I love you and I’m proud of you.”

“Love you too.”

“Call me if you need me.” He brings his phone closer again, his eyes narrowed. “Any time.”

“Except when you’re on the ice.”

“Even then, Han. Even then.”

TWENTY

DANIEL

I haven’t seenHannah in two weeks, and I’m going out of my mind. Fuck. If this is how the guys’ wives feel all season, I’m shocked any of them stick around. I’ve never been the one at home waiting—and I sure as shit have never had someone at home waiting for me—and I never want to do it again.

She’s good about responding to my texts, though she never initiates them. I don’t hold it against her. She’s the one carrying my baby. I’m the one who should be checking on her. It’s just—I want her towantto talk to me. I wish she felt the same emotions that are bubbling inside me, threatening to burst out at all times.

Night after night, I use all the restraint I possess to keep from picking up the phone and calling her. When I’m watching a funny show on TV, I want to text her about it. When I find a great pregnancy article or a vlog that really hits home, I want to watch it with her.

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