Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(41)

“She closed her hands around his erection, squeezed, sent her tongue darting out to taste his essence—”

And . . . got it! The sound cuts off—though I’m definitely going back to listen to the rest of that scene when I’m alone.

An awkward silence is shrouded over the cab—as my eyes dart to Dean’s grandmother. “Sorry. It’s an audiobook I was listening to.”

Her thin, penciled eyebrows rise. “I’ll have to borrow it from you when you’re finished.” And then she winks. “Can’t wait to hear what happens next.”

The anxiety that was squeezing my chest, loosens. Dean and Jason’s muffled laughter comes from the backseat, and a second later I join them.

I pull into the driveway of a modest home. We all lumber out of the truck and head inside. In the foyer, a small black cat comes padding around the corner, curling itself around Jason’s leg. He crouches down and scoops the fluffy ball up into his arms.

“Careful with the cat, Jay,” Deans warns, “She’s not—”

The cat loves on Jason hard—rubbing its head along his collarbone, purring loudly like a happy mini-lion, planting a string of adoring, licking kisses along his jaw.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head, pouting. “Tell you later.”

And when I glance at the cat—I swear she’s wearing a gloating, smirking expression—aimed right at Dean.

“That’s my Lucy,” Grams says, scratching her head. “It’s good to have a pet around the house. It teaches boys to be responsible and nurturing.”

“Except when the pet is trying to kill you,” Dean murmurs under his breath.

I swapped my cotton shorts for a pair of navy yoga pants before we left the house. They’re comfy, but snug around my middle, putting the bump on full display. My sweater shifts as we all move into the living room, and Grams suddenly stops short.

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and speaks like she’s breaking the news to me—in case I didn’t know.

“Lainey, you’re pregnant, dear.”

Over her shoulder, Dean chuckles soundlessly.

“Uh, yeah.” I fidget. “I know.”

Dean moves around his grandmother to stand beside me, and takes my hand in his.

“Lainey and I met over the summer, Grams. We’re having a baby. Together.”

I wait for her reaction—this woman who raised Dean, who obviously means the world to him. I brace myself for suspicion or disapproval to creep into her aged eyes. But her gaze just shifts back and forth between me and her grandson. And then she covers her mouth with a slightly trembling hand.

“Oh, how wonderful!”

Then she hugs me—wrapping me in an embrace that’s warm and welcoming and surprisingly strong. Then she gives Dean the same treatment.

“What a beautiful child you two will have. This calls for champagne—life is short, drink champagne whenever you can. Jason,” she calls with an easy familiarity. “That liquor cabinet there. The key is beneath the elephant on top. Open it up and get the bottle of champagne. Dean—get the crystal glasses from the dining room.”

I opt for apple juice, but once Dean, Grams and even Jason have a glass of champagne—Grams holds up her sparkling flute.

“Welcome to the family, Lainey and Jason. The best days are when babies come—to the best days coming our way soon.”

We all click glasses and my son drains his in one gulp.

Then he makes a face. “It doesn’t taste anything like stars. John Green is full of shit.”

We sit on the couch and Grams pats my knee. “How far along are you?”

“About four and a half months.”

“That’s when things start to get interesting.” Grams pats Dean’s leg with her other hand. “And if the baby grows up to be a hellion like you—you’ll know all the tricks they’ll try before they do.”

“Dean was a hellion?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. But mark my words—they grow up to be the best fathers.”

Grams pours herself another glass of champagne and Dean rubs his hands together. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“You could make your spaghetti sauce,” Grams replies.

I meet Dean’s eyes. “You cook?

“I do. I cook spaghetti sauce. That’s the only thing.”

“But it’s delicious,” Grams adds, proudly.

“It is delicious. She’s not lying. But I can’t cook spaghetti Grams—Lainey has heartburn.”

He remembered. Is it weird that that turns me on? Cause it does. A lot.

“You still jonesing for Boston Market?” he asks me. “I can go pick it up and we can eat back here.”

“Sounds good.”

After we get our orders straight, Grams rises from the couch to the bureau, then hobbles back with a stack of photo albums in her arms.

“Let me show you some pictures of Deany—he was such a precious baby.”

Dean stands, lifting his chin at me. “Lainey—keys?” I take the keyring out of my purse and Dean catches them one-handed. “Hey, Jaybird—you coming or are you going to hang with the girls and look at my bareass bathtub baby pictures?”