Page 33 of The Final Faceoff
That’s another thing we’re going to have to discuss. I should’ve been her first call. If it wasn’t me, who did she reach out to? Probably nobody. She was hoping to hide for eighteen years and come back after she solved the issue. Someone should tell her a baby isn’t an issue . . . but how can she know that when her father made her feel like a problem after her mother died?
For now, I’ll do what I do best: show up, joke, be supportive. I’ll make sure she doesn’t feel lonely.
“You know what this means, right?” I say, tilting my head.
Her brows furrow. “What?”
I grin. “I get to be the first person to see undeniable proof that your kid has your weirdly shaped toes.”
“I don’t think you can see that right now.” She groans. “Oh, God, I don’t know why I’m here. You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to replace,” I agree.
It works. She rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders loosens, and I’ll take that as a win.
Freaking out can wait. Overanalyzing every emotion I’ve buried for years? That’s a problem for future me. Right now, she needs me. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Go find your swimsuit, Hailey Bean. Let’s use the pool. In the meantime, I’ll call the chef so he can plan accordingly,” I state.
“I don’t need your chef nor?—”
“You might not, but the little peanut probably will,” I cut her off before she begins to protest. I tilt my head toward the stairs. “Come on, go change. You’ll give me your new list of complaints once you’ve ordered the new furniture and gotten settled.”
“That might not happen for a few days.” She pouts.
I shrug as if saying, well, tough luck. You’ll have to deal with this place, not me. “Go upstairs, and stop looking for excuses to . . . do whatever you’re trying to pull, Hailey.”
ChapterTwelve
Hailey
When it’s Time to Rough the Past, Embrace the Future
Somebody handed me the wrong bingo card for this year.
Things that weren’t included on it: being pregnant, moving into Leif’s penthouse, and somehow making my best friend—a man so emotionally unavailable he practically has a “Closed for Renovations” sign on his heart—my emergency contact.
Yet, here we are.
The waiting room is suspiciously comfortable. Plush chairs. Soft lighting. The air carries a faint scent of vanilla and something floral, probably designed to trick expecting mothers into believing they are stepping into a calm, nurturing experience rather than an existential free fall.
Across from me, a pregnant woman flips through a magazine with the ease of someone who belongs here. She looks composed, like she already has a birth plan, a carefully curated list of baby names, and a nursery aesthetic straight off Pinterest. She might even have a doula on retainer.
I grip the armrest of my chair, my knuckles aching from the effort. Nothing about this feels natural. My brain still refuses to accept that an actual human is growing inside me.
Leif sits next to me, one leg stretched out, looking around like this is an interesting detour in his day rather than a pivotal moment in my life. His gaze lingers on the soft pastel walls, the framed pictures of sleeping woodland animals. “They’re really committed to the whole ‘this is a peaceful, magical experience’ vibe, huh?”
I exhale slowly. “They have to be. Otherwise, people might start asking too many questions. Like why pregnancy books conveniently leave out the part where your organs become a real-life game of Tetris.”
His mouth quirks at the corner. “You want some light reading?” He gestures toward the laminated pamphlets stacked neatly on the side table.Stages of LaborandBreastfeeding Basicssit at the top, glaring at me like overdue homework assignments. “I could read them to you in a dramatic voice. Make it more entertaining.”
I arch a brow. “Are we talking inspirational sports documentary or psychological thriller?”
His voice drops into a deep, movie-trailer timbre. “In a world where nothing will ever be the same, one woman faces the ultimate test. Sleep deprivation. Cravings. And a tiny human who will one day demand snacks at two in the morning.”
Despite everything, my lips twitch. “You’re insufferable.”
“I prefer ‘morally obligated to provide comedic relief in times of crisis.’” He flips open one of the magazines and scans a page with mock seriousness. “Alright, let’s see what groundbreaking parenting wisdom I can offer. Hmm. Apparently, you should talk to the baby in utero to promote early bonding.” He pauses, tilting his head. “So basically, you need to start delivering monologues like a Shakespearean actor from the time. Or you can brainwash the child into obeying you—always.”
