Page 32 of Time Out

My teapot whistled from the small two-burner stove. Perfect timing.

How in the heck was I supposed to respond to that?

The whistle bought me time, but it didn’t save me from Davis’s continued inspection. If I was to appreciate his silence while I fixed my tea and settled more crackers and cheese on a plate, I didn’t.

All the time did was give me more of it to cast quick, secretive glances in his direction, inhale the muted but spicy scent of him and catalog his flaws—of which there were none.

Shame.

He was utter masculine perfection.

I was too short, too thick, too top heavy due to my large breasts I swore were another size larger this morning.

Soon I’d be a waddling overweight penguin, probably stretch-marked to the max. Davis would still be perfect, which made his earlier statement ridiculous.

In nine months, there was no way he’d want me. Heck, I’d give it five. That was only one of the many reasons I could conjure up that reinforced why we shouldn’t go down that road. It’d only make parenting harder when broken hearts—most likely mine—would be involved.

Collapsing onto my couch with a sigh, I forced my eyes to stay open as I took the first precious sip of tea. Another yawn weighed down my limbs, making bringing the cup to my mouth a task and a half.

“You’re exhausted,” Davis spoke from his seat on the stool.

“I have a hard time being awake these days. My doctor tells me it’s normal and will pass.”

“Second trimester. Only a few weeks to go.”

Great. I’d gotten pregnant by a man who knew stuff. Instead of comforted by it, my jaw clenched. Would it hurt for him to not be good at something? I was still counting weeks on my fingers and trying to figure out how nine months equaled forty weeks.

As the third eldest, my knowledge of pregnancy was extensive, but I’d been sixteen the last time my mom was pregnant and we weren’t a family prone to open and honest communication.

Now that it was happening to me, I’d forgotten—or never known—a lot.

“How’s your morning sickness?” Davis asked.

He was trying. I’d give him that.

“I don’t usually feel like throwing up as long as I have food in me. Mostly I’m tired and my limbs hurt. Along with other aches.”

Not like I was going to tell him my breasts felt like they were on fire and stretching with every breath.

“My mom never threw up when she was pregnant either. Doctor says it’s normal either way.”

“Your mom talks about her pregnancy with you? I mean… does she know?” he asked.

“I don’t talk to my mom. It’s the seven pregnancies after mine I was thinking of.” I covered my mouth as another yawn hit.

“You’re the oldest of eight?” Surprise made both his voice and brows rise.

Ha. I wish.

“Third oldest of ten, actually.” I sipped my tea and let that settle.

“Wow.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “That’s a lot of kids.”

“That’s a pretty common response I get.”

He chuckled. I joined him.

“Are you calling me common?”

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