Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(12)

It’d change everything. No f*cking doubt. His life was predictable in ways he found both reassuring and monotonous, and a baby would throw it all into chaos. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t handle it, but it would be a far more welcome challenge a few years down the road.

Laurel, though. She had potential. He might make decent money working construction, but it was nothing like what she could pull in if she managed to land an engineering job. A career. That was what she needed to be worried about, right now. Plus there was her mental health. She’d gone through a long blue patch over the holidays, and at his urging got prescribed an antidepressant she could take on an as-needed basis. It seemed to be helping a lot. Would she have to give that up, if she took on a pregnancy?

He dropped the weights he’d been using onto the rack with twin clangs, swore under his breath. He needed to chill the f*ck out. He eyed the handful of guys on the benches and at the heavy bags, sizing them up. All kids or newbies, nobody fit to spar with. Not the way he needed to fight right now. He went through the rest of his routine, seeking solace and not finding any. Jesus, uncertainty was the motherf*cking worst.

Desperate for distraction, he went back to the grocery store, bought the ingredients for the only thing he knew how to cook that tasted any good—casserole. He cooked noodles and slices of sausage and mixed them up with marinara sauce and covered it with mozzarella and foil and stuck it in the oven just in time to leave to pick up Laurel. If she hadn’t bought a test or gotten her period, they’d make a stop at Rite Aid.

He was just shrugging into his jacket when a familiar sound stilled him—a knock and the scrabble of a key in the lock.

Laurel appeared, smiling, snowflakes melting in her hair. Then that smile drooped, her eyes taking in his coat and hat. “Were you about to come get me?”

“Yeah.”

“I left you a message, like, four hours ago. My coworker lives around the corner—she gave me a lift.”

“Oh.”

“You really need to check your phone.”

“I don’t think I can even get text messages.”

She smirked. “You can, you just refuse to learn how. And I left you a voicemail, anyhow. I know you.”

“Oops.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here now. Saved you the trip.” She shed her coat and hung it up, then stepped close, rising on tiptoes to pull the cap from his head.

He kissed her temple. “How was work?”

“Exhausting. Like, really exhausting.”

He didn’t doubt it—she looked wiped, eyes dull and cheeks pink. Though now he thought about it, it wasn’t that windy today.

“I’m making dinner.”

She perked up some at that. “Are you? Let me guess—Italian casserole.”

“You guess right.”

“Well, good. I like your one recipe. I brought leftovers, but it’s only dessert, so that’s perfect.”

“You don’t look so hot,” he said.

“Thanks very much.”

“Can I get you something?”

“I dunno…” She unwound the scarf from her neck. “When’s dinner?”

“An hour.”

“I just want to lie down, I think. I’m all hot and woozy. I hope I don’t have the flu.”

How selfish is it that I hope maybe you do? If it was between that or being pregnant, he knew which one he felt prepared for. “Go lie down, then. I’ll wake you up when it’s ready.”

Only he didn’t. Laurel curled up on his bed and passed out, and he didn’t wake her when the timer dinged. He took the foil off the dish and let the cheese brown, then turned the oven on low. Heather had lent him a book, some novel about broke-ass college guys in the Northwest doing rowing back in the World War II days or something. He stretched out beside Laurel on the bed and stared at the first page and kept on staring, didn’t take in more than six words while he waited for her to wake.

At long last, a hmm, a yawn. A dozy groan and she turned onto her side, eyes blinking open to find him there.

“Dinner smells good. Is it ready?”

“It is.”

“What time is it?”

He looked to the microwave. “Ten twenty-one.”

“Whoa. What?”

“You were beat.”

She sat up. “Jesus. I napped for three hours?”

“Hungry?”

She looked down at her stomach as though conferring. “Very.”

“Good. Me too.”

Beyond hungry, in Flynn’s case. He’d only eaten a fistful of cheese and a few slices of sausage since before his workout. His gut was packed with butterflies, but they weren’t particularly filling.

Laurel moved to the couch and he loaded a couple bowls with dried-out casserole. He made it a whole minute before the clinking of forks drove him to blurt, “You buy a pregnancy test?”

Pausing mid-chew, she studied him with still-sleepy eyes. She swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Not to sound paranoid, but when’d you get your period last?”

She frowned, thinking. “Oh—it was New Year’s morning. I remember I had a champagne hangover and that showed up on top of it.”

“That was almost two months ago.”