Page 6 of Better Daddy
Naturally, Cal would be the idiot who opened the door.
“Sloaney, you’re pregnant?” The sod breaks into a blinding smile. “Wait, if you’re pregnant, that means you have to move in.”
“Oh shit,” Brian says from where he’s still tangled up with Lo on the floor. “He’s right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloane hisses, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “Sully, tell them this is ridiculous.”
Despite my best efforts, my lips wobble into a smile. The sensation is unfamiliar, like my facial muscles have forgotten how to do this. But they’re right. This is perfect. “Of course you’re moving in. You’re the incubator.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could inhale them, take them back, and rearrange them intosomething far more tactful. I’ve never been known to speak out of turn, but with Sloane, I lose my head.
And technically—according to Madame E, at least—I’m not wrong.
Lo’s eyes are wide. “Shh, Sully. You’ll ruin it.”
“You called her anincubator?” Brian glares at me as he heaves himself to his feet.
“This closet is for private conversations,” Sloane hisses before I can defend myself.
Lo gets to her feet with help from Cal, and when she’s steady, she shakes her head. She and my wife are incredibly close. Until two minutes ago, their friendship was my only hope. If it meant moving in with her best friend, then there was a minuscule chance that Sloane would give in and come to Jersey. Now that she’s pregnant? Fuck, my lips twitch again. My wife is pregnant. This is bloody brilliant.
“I don’t know why you think that. The walls are paper thin and everyone can hear everything.”
Lo’s right. Also, the cupboard is dark and dirty, and I have to duck to pass through the doorway. We should have stayed in my office, but the honest truth is that where Sloane leads, I follow. It’s been that way for about twenty years.
“We’re having a baby!” Cal shouts to the dingy ceiling.
My brother is a handful, always full of life and joy. Most days, it makes me want to clobber him. But at this moment, I’m struggling not to join in on the celebration. Because yes, we’re having a baby.
My wife turns her silent ire on my brother. If he’s not careful, he’ll go up in flames. This kind of fierceness is only one of the hundreds of things I miss about her.
I reach for her. “Sloane.”
She jerks back before I can touch her. “Maybe incubator is better. You should call me that from now on.” She glances past me to her purse. In a quick motion, she clutches it and storms out of the cupboard.
“Sloane,” I call after her.
She doesn’t stop. Of course she doesn’t. My wife has a temper like no other, and I set her off.
Rushing past the idiots I work with, I stalk after her. “Sweetheart, wait.” I catch her arm before she makes it to the front door and force her to look at me. “You are not an incubator. That was bad timing. It wasn’t even my first thought. But Madame Esmeralda was just here telling us we were waiting for the incubator.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Who?”
“The woman upstairs.” I shake my head. Bugger. Suddenly her predictions seem a lot more accurate. When she convinced Cal to get forty plants, a fish, and a cat the size of a small tiger, I thought she was out of her mind or fucking with the tosser. But she told me in a roundabout way that Sloane was pregnant. And if she knew that, then what else might she know?
Sloane lifts her chin in defiance. “The psychic lady told you I was an incubator?”
I nod. It’s eerie, really, but we have more important things to discuss than Madame E.
Like how far along my wife is or when she found out. Though I suppose I know the answer to the first question. In the last half a year or so, we’ve only been together once. That was six weeks ago.
“Did you take a test?” I ask instead.
“No,” she deadpans, hand on her hip. “The first thing I did when I realized my period was late was come over here and announce that I’m pregnant.” She jerks her purse open and digs around in it, then thrusts a photo at me.
My chest pinches at the sight of the black and white image.
“You’ve been to the doctor.” The words slip out in a tone more accusatory than I mean. Fuck, I’m a giant arse.
She steps away, putting space that I don’t want between us, and crosses her arms. “Of course I have. I tested. Then I went to the doctor and confirmed before I dropped this bomb on you.”
