Page 14 of Pregnant in Plaid
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands open and close at his sides like he's trying to grab onto reality and it keeps slipping through his fingers.
Then, very slowly, he takes a step back.
Then another.
"Trace?" Tessa's voice comes from somewhere behind me, concerned.
He doesn't answer. Just keeps backing away, his eyes never leaving my stomach. His expression is completely blank now, like someone hit the reset button on his entire operating system and nothing's loading.
"I need—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. "I need a minute."
And then he turns and walks away—not quite steady on his feet, moving like someone who just took a hit to the head and is trying to convince everyone he'sfine—heading straight for the woodpile at the side of the cabin.
"Should we—" I start, but Tessa grabs my arm.
"Let him process," she says quietly, watching him pick up an axe. "Men like Trace... they need to do something physical when their brain shorts out."
We watch as he positions a log on the chopping block. Raises the axe. Brings it down with enough force that the log doesn't just split—it explodes into pieces.
He sets up another log. And another. And another.
"Is he going to be okay?" I whisper, shivering in the cold air.
"Honestly?" Tessa pulls me toward the cabin. "I have no idea. But you're freezing, and standing out here won't help either of you."
The sound of splitting wood follows us inside—steady, rhythmic, violent.
Chapter 3
Trace
The log explodes into kindling, and I'm pretty sure I just murdered an innocent piece of firewood.
I'm a father.
I swing the axe again. Another log detonates like I'm auditioning for a Viking rage commercial.
I'm going to be adad.
The word bounces around my skull like a rubber ball in a concrete room, hitting every surface and making approximately zero sense. Dad. Father. Papa. Daddy. None of these words compute. They're like trying to download a file my brain doesn't have software for.
I line up another log, raise the axe, and bring it down with enough force that the chopping block shifts sideways.
Seven months pregnant. She's been pregnant forseven months, and I had no idea. Seven months ofdoctor appointments and cravings and—what do pregnant women even do? Read books about babies? Buy tiny socks? Panic at three in the morning about whether they're ready to keep a human alive?
Because I'm doing that last one right now, and the human isn't even here yet.
The axe comes down again. Wood splinters. My shoulders burn. Good. Physical pain I understand. Physical pain makes sense. This? This situation where Patrice Henley—the woman I haven't been able to stop thinking about for six months—just told me I'm the father of her child?
This is insane.
"You're going to run out of logs before you run out of feelings," Gage's voice comes from behind me, calm and measured in that way that usually means he's about to say something annoyingly wise.
"Then I'll start on the shed," I mutter, positioning another log.
"The shed's metal. You'll just dent the axe."
"Don't care."
