Page 35 of Pregnant in Plaid
He catches me looking. "What?"
"Nothing." Everything. The wallet picture. The emergency contact form. The way he types notes about epidurals like he's preparing for combat.
I don't want to leave. Not tomorrow, not after next week, not when Tessa's wedding is over and I'm supposed to head back to... what exactly? The Anchorage job where I know no one? The apartment I'll be alone in?
The baby kicks, hard enough to make me wince.
"You okay?" He's already coming around to my side of the truck.
"Fine. It’s just reminding me it’s here."
"It does that a lot?" He helps me down, his hand steady on my elbow.
“Yeah. It does.”
And so does he.
Chapter 7
Trace
She's been here since yesterday, and I've already learned that pregnant women need to pee constantly.
Not that I'm complaining. Just—science should probably study this.
I'm at my kitchen table pretending to review blueprints for the Johnsons' addition when Patrice emerges from the bathroom for what has to be the eighth time this morning. Her hair's piled in a messy knot, she's wearing one of my flannels over leggings, and she looks both adorable and like she might murder me if I point that out.
"Don't," she warns, catching me looking.
"Don't what?" I ask innocently.
"Whatever you were about to say about my bladder."
"Wasn't going to say anything about your bladder." I was totally going to say something about her bladder.
"You had that look."
"What look?"
"That look men get when they think something is cute and they're deciding whether to risk death by mentioning it." She waddles—there's no other word for it—to the coffee maker and pours herself decaf. "The answer is no. Always no."
"Noted," I say, biting back a grin.
She settles into the chair across from me with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in her soul. "How do you work from home without going insane?"
"Who says I'm not insane?"
"Fair point. You did let a pregnant stranger move into your cabin."
"You're not a stranger," I say, and something shifts in her expression. "You're the mother of my kid."
Before she can respond—before either of us can examine that statement too closely—her phone rings.
She glances at the screen, and her whole face lights up. "It's my new boss. Hold on." She answers, all professional brightness. "This is Patrice. Hi, David! Yes, I'm?—"
She stops. Listens. And I watch her face go from excited to confused to absolutely stricken in the space of about ten seconds.
"What do you mean shut down?" Her voice pitches higher. "But I signed the contract. I already gave notice at—" She pauses. "State investigation? No, I—I understand it's not your fault, but?—"
