Page 12 of Pregnant in Plaid
Tessa stares at me for a long moment. Then she starts the truck.
"Where are we going?" I ask nervously.
"To my place. Where you're going to stay. And eat. And rest. And then—" She glances at me with an expression that's equal parts exasperationand affection. "Then we're going to figure out what the hell to do about Trace."
"We could just not tell him?" I suggest weakly.
"Patrice."
"Or I could go back to Florida right now?"
"PATRICE."
"Fake my own death?"
The drive to Ashwood Falls takes about two and a half hours, and Tessa spends the entire time alternating between lecturing me about communication and asking increasingly specific questions about my pregnancy. Due date. Doctor appointments. Cravings. Whether I know the sex.
"I don't," I admit. "I wanted to be surprised."
"Of course you did," Tessa mutters. "Because nothing about this situation is surprising enough already."
When we finally pull up to the cabin she shares with Gage, I'm exhausted, starving, and desperately need to pee again. The cabin looks exactly like something out of a wilderness magazine—all wood and windows and smoke curling from the chimney.
"Gage is at work," Tessa says, killing the engine. "Which gives us time to strategize before?—"
The front door opens, and a large, bearded man steps out onto the porch.
Not Gage.
Trace.
My brain short-circuits. My heart attempts toescape through my throat. And my hands instinctively move to cover my stomach even though there's literally no way to hide it at this point.
He's holding a toolbox and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looks exactly like I remember—maybe better, which seems cosmically unfair—and his eyes lock onto mine through the windshield.
Then they drop to my stomach.
His face goes through about seventeen emotions in three seconds: confusion, shock, realization, and something that might be anger or panic or both.
"Oh shit," Tessa whispers.
"Oh shit," I agree.
Trace sets down the toolbox very carefully, like he's worried he might drop it. Or throw it. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see it from here.
Then he starts walking toward the truck.
"What do I do?" I hiss at Tessa.
"I don't know! This wasn't supposed to happen yet!"
"Should I run?"
"You can barely walk!"
Trace reaches the passenger side door and yanks it open. Cold air rushes in, along with the overwhelming presence of a man who's just had his entire world flipped upside down.
"Patrice," he says, and his voice is rough and low and vibrating with barely controlled emotion.
