Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(63)

“Yes, I do.”

I put my heart and soul into those words, swearing them with my lips pressed to her damp cheek.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

I know, because it has to be. Because I can’t fucking fathom any other outcome. Because I want this baby with her, so much.

And even more than that—I want more babies with her after this. It’s a realization that kind of sneaks up on you. Not one you give long hours of contemplation to—but that you accept immediately and whole-heartedly anyway, simply because it’s true.

I never wanted a family—never dreamed of having kids—but I’ll dream it now. Because I want what Garrett and Callie have. I want what their parents had. A house full of rambunctious feet and laughing voices, long nights and early -dawn mornings. I want to teach Jason to drive, and talk to him about girls and work and life. And I want to be the guy holding Lainey in my arms when she cries on the day he leaves for college.

I want the whole package, and I want it with her.

Only ever with her.

“I don’t expect you to stay if the baby doesn’t—”

“Shhh . . . stop, don’t finish that sentence.” I run my hands through her hair and down her back, soft and gentle. “Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? It’s hell on the ego. Good thing mine is larger than most and can sustain the blow.”

She snorts out a tiny laugh.

“I’m not going anywhere, Lainey,” I whisper against her hair. “I’m in this, I’m here, I’m not leaving. There’s only you. I promise, I swear, it’s only you.”

I don’t tell her that I love her—even though I do.

It’s a soul-searing kind of love that brands itself on you, that changes you. I’ve never felt this before and I know I’ll never feel it again with anyone else. But it’s the wrong time to tell her. The first time I give her that, I want it to be beautiful for her—and without a single shred of lingering doubt that the words come straight from my heart, and that they’re true.

She doesn’t say anything back, just breathes softly. But then her arm tightens across my chest, and she wiggles in closer, tucking herself right against me, not leaving a wisp of air between us. And there’s solace in holding each other. Comfort in whispered words and gentle touches.

I’m giving her that and she’s letting me. And for now, that’s enough.

“I know we still have a lot to talk about, Lainey, and we will. After we get through this, we’ll finish that conversation. But right now, I just want to hold you. Okay?”

A moment passes, and then Lainey rests her hand on my stomach and nods against my chest. I press my lips to the top of her head, and keep her safe and warm in the circle of my arms.

“Try and sleep, baby. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”





Chapter Sixteen


Lainey




They send me home from the hospital two days later on super-duper strict bed rest—that’s my term, not the doctor’s. It basically means I’m allowed to get up to pee and go to the OBGYN. But that’s it. No long walks around the lake for me, no walking—period. Not for ten weeks.

And I’m okay with that—I would stand on my head for the next ten weeks if it means our baby will be okay. That first night in the hospital, while Dean was asleep, I wrapped my arms around my stomach and talked softly to the baby. I told him or her how much I loved them, how much their daddy and I wanted them, and I asked them to try and stay inside for just a little bit longer.

My parents brought Jason to visit me the next day, and I heard the relief in his voice when he was able to see that the contractions had stopped and I was okay. My sisters visited that afternoon too and it was bustling and busy and distracting.

But now that I’m home, it’s all really hitting me. What the next ten weeks are actually going to be like. And so I lay on my back, propped up on pillows on the mattress in the unfinished master suite, with my phone in my hand, and no makeup on my face—crying—as I record a live video.

“Good news and bad news, Lifers. We’re home. The contractions have stopped and the watermelon and I are okay. But I’m on bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, the baby is good—and I know that’s all that matters. And I feel so damn guilty for even worrying about anything else, but there’s so much to do. I don’t know how I’m going to take care of Jaybird, and the house is barely half-finished. I can’t decorate from bed and I can’t—”

Dean walks in the room, the muscles in his short-sleeved T-shirt straining under the weight of a giant duffel bag thrown over his back. He drops it on the floor with a plop.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” I sniff. “I’m doing a live video.”

I turn the camera Dean’s way. He waves.

“Hey, Lifers.” Then he looks at me. “You need anything? Tea, something to eat?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Okay.”

Then he turns and walks back out the door.

I look into the camera. “When I have more details, I’ll let you know. Worst case scenario is—”

Dean comes back into the room, this time with a stuffed black garbage bag—like a poor man’s Santa Claus. He drops it beside the duffel without a word, and walks out again.