Page 13 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Hi," I squeak. "Funny running into you here."
His eyes drop to my belly again, then back to my face. "How far along are you?"
"Um. Seven months. Give or take."
I watch him do the math. Watch his expression shift from confusion to absolute certainty.
"Where," he says slowly, each word measured and dangerous, "is the father?"
My throat closes up. This is it. This is the moment.
But before I can answer, his expression hardens into something protective and furious all at once. "Because if some asshole got you pregnant and then left you to deal with this alone, I swear to God?—"
"Trace," Tessa starts, but he ignores her.
"You flew across the country seven months pregnant," he continues, and there's real anger in his voice now. Not at me—at whoever he thinks is responsible. "Without the father? What kind of man does that? What kind of?—"
"Stop," I manage, but it comes out weak.
"You should be at home. You should be resting. You shouldn't be traveling alone in your condition, and where the hell is he? Why isn't he here taking care of you?"
The alpha-male protectiveness in his voice—the assumption that I need taking care of, that I can't handle this myself—lights a fire in my chest.
"I don't need anyone to take care ofme," I snap, finding my voice. "I've been handling this just fine on my own."
"Clearly," he shoots back, gesturing at me in the truck. "Flying across the country alone while seven months pregnant is definitely handling it."
"That's not—you don't understand?—"
"Then help me understand!" His voice rises, and I can see the hurt beneath the anger now. "Because from where I'm standing, some guy got you pregnant and bailed, and you're too stubborn to ask for help."
"He didn't bail!" The words burst out before I can stop them.
"Then where is he?" Trace demands. "Tell me where he is, Patrice. I'll go get him. I'll drag him back here myself if I have to, because no woman should have to?—"
"You want to know where the father is?" I shout, my own anger finally breaking free. All the fear and anxiety and months of holding this secret explode out of me. "You want to know where he is?"
"YES!"
I grab the door frame and haul myself out of the truck with more force than grace, standing as tall as I can while seven months pregnant, and glare at him.
"Look in the fucking mirror, Trace!"
The words hang in the freezing air between us.
His face goes blank. Completely blank.
"What?" he says, and his voice is barely a whisper.
I'm shaking now—from cold, from adrenaline, fromsheer terror at what I just said. But there's no taking it back now.
"You," I say, voice breaking. "You're the father."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Processing. Computing.
His face goes white. Not pale—completely drained of color, like every drop of blood just evacuated his body. His eyes are wide, unfocused, looking at me but not seeing me.
"You," I say again, voice breaking. "You're the father."
