Page 18 of A Labor of Hate
Dekker:Who says it wasn’t my loyalty that made me do it?I had to research this guy my little sister wouldn’t stop talking about.
Me:I haven’t mentioned his name in months.How did you even find him?And how long have you been Facebook friends?
She sent a tongue-sticking-out emoji.
Dekker:Is that jealousy I hear?
Me:Ha.Ha.You’re hilarious.
She sentanother wave of crying-laughing emojis.
Dekker:You’re not the only one who can investigate people, you know.
Me:I’m not sure having someone accept a friend request so you can look at their profile counts as investigating, but sure.
Dekker:Hey, I still had to find him in the first place.All I had to do was search for “hot guy named Colt” and BOOM.There he was.
I rolledmy eyes and sent an emoji doing the same just so the message was clear.
Me:His profile pic is a lighthouse, so unless you’ve got a thing for those…
Dekker:They’re both tall and lean, right?
A pairof winky face emojis came next, followed by a kissy face.
Me:Last I checked, lighthouses weren’t insufferably annoying, so I think I’ll take my chances with them.
Dekker:Too bad.You get the hot, model-like FBI agent with puppy dog eyes instead.Poor you.
I scowled at my phone,nearly ready to toss it in with Gill-bert as ifithad been the one committing blasphemy.It’s not like I’d need it for the next two months, anyway.
She’d already sent a GIF of a dog begging by the time I typed out my reply.
Me:That’s an insult to puppies everywhere.
Dekker:And yet, you don’t dispute the hotness.
Me:GOODNIGHT, DEKKER.
A stringof crying-laughing emojis entered the chat before I tossed my phone to the far end of the couch.It needed a time-out.Or maybe a cooling off period where it could cleanse itself of the Colt propaganda it just had to witness.
For that matter,Ineeded one of those, too.
Instead, without the distraction it had provided, I was left to face the daunting reality in front of me.The belly peeking out from the box taunted me.The ring on my finger practically jeered.The packing and preparing that I had to do over the weekend was only a series of doable tasks, the setup for the main event: I, a woman who would never have kids of her own, would have to pretend to be pregnant like my life depended on it.
And the worst thing was, that would be the easiest part.
CHAPTERSEVEN
WANTTO KNOW the only thing worse than moving?Moving for the second time in two months, except this time you’re fake-pregnant and moving into a house with your nemesis.
Okay, fine.It wasn’t theonlything worse.In fact, since I’d never gotten around to unpacking half of the boxes from the last time I’d moved, packing had taken half the time it would’ve.And, with any luck, half the time it had taken Colt, since Heaven knows he’d be alphabetizing everything and vacuum sealing it for good measure.So take that, proactivity.Who’s laughing now?
Me.I am.In case that wasn’t clear.
I hefted the next box, trying and failing to find a natural way to hold it with the belly getting in the way.It had been awkward carrying everything else in, but I wasn’t about to wait for help to arrive, especially when the “help” was Colt.Nope.I was on a mission.A new, smaller mission of only slightly less importance: claim the master bedroom for myself.
“Chronically late Lex” who?It sure wasn’t me this time.Colt could eat his words and wash them down with his apple juice.
