Page 153 of Executing Malice
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SEVEN MONTHS LATER...
“Stop singingEminemto it.”
I’ve barely opened my eyes all the way but can hear the soft hum of Dante serenading my very swollen, very full belly. It’s a ritual he started doing the moment we learned I was expecting. Normally, I would think it was cute. A little endearing, but this little monster has kept me awake the entire night, digging its little toes into my ribs.
I am not amused.
“But Daddywillbuy her a mockingbird.”
I roll my eyes. “And where is Daddy getting a mockingbird from?”
Soft, warm kisses litter across the arch of my belly towards the center. “Have you forgotten, dearest wife, that I have access to anything I want? I will get my princess whatever she wants.”
“Christ, you’re going to spoil her into becoming one of those awful children no one likes.”
His head jerks up. “How dare you.”
I ignore him. “Besides, what if it’s a boy?”
“Boys can like mockingbirds,” he counters smoothly.
I don’t mean to be in such a foul mood. Being pregnant, while exciting, is exhausting. I hurt in places I didn’t know existed. I’m as big as a house, and for someone who hasn’t always been a fan of her weight, that took some adjusting to. I eat like there’s a food shortage, and it’s never normal stuff anymore. I learned pickle juice was the way to go.
On everything!
Spaghetti? Pickle juice.
Sandwiches? Only if I can dip it in pickle juice.
Coffee? With a drop of pickle juice.
It’s disgusting. My brain knows it’s foul, but that’s all the baby wants.
If I never see pickle juice again, it would be too soon.
“Are you sore?” Dante lifts his head when I shift, trying to ease the knot along my entire spine from lying on my back the entire night.
“It doesn’t like when I turn on my side,” I grumble.
“Here. Sit up.”
With his help, I rock-swing myself up into a sitting position and drop my legs over the side of the bed. Dante moves up behind me and, as he has been doing every morning, hekneads my back. He digs his fingers beneath all the tissues and bones, and I groan with unadulterated pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” I moan, leaning back into his magic fingers.
It’s just getting good when a soft knock at the front door snatches it away.
“It’s your mom,” Dante states, using his phone to link to the door camera he installed the second we got the keys to our new home.
“Shoot,” I grumble. “I forgot we were supposed to go out to pick up the last few things for the baby.”
Dante frowns as I push to my feet. “You’re driving to Mayfield?”
I groan. “I hope not. My bladder can no longer hold for four hours at a time. It’s fine,” I assure him, kissing the creases between his brows. “I’m getting really good at squat peeing.”
My joke is met with a scowl that makes me chuckle.
