Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(67)

“Who else knows about—about this?”

“Just Winnie. I haven’t told my parents yet.”

That surprised me. “You haven’t?”

“No. I wanted to tell you first. I only told Winnie because I’d just found out and I was desperate and scared.”

“Why didn’t you come to me right away?”

She looked down at her feet. “I just couldn’t.”

I was hurt that she felt that way, but some gut instinct told me to set my feelings aside. There were other things on the counter she might chuck at my head. The knife block was barely an arm’s reach away.

Something occurred to me. “The night Winnie filled in for you, when you didn’t feel good. This is why?”

Ellie nodded. “That was the day I found out.”

“That must have been . . . a shock.”

She laughed, a bitter sound. “Yeah.”

I leaned back in the chair. “When should we tell our parents?”

“I’m going to call mine tomorrow.” She looked down at the marble. “I’m—I’m a little nervous about what my mother will say.”

“You think she’ll be upset?”

“Yeah. Disappointed.”

I felt sweaty and slightly sick. “God, Ellie. I’m . . . I’m fucking lost. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I’m the father. I feel like I should take some kind of responsibility.” Propping my elbows on the counter, I threaded my hands into my hair. “Should we get married or something?”

Her jaw fell open. “Is that a joke? No, we should not get married! This isn’t the olden days where a woman is scorned for having a baby out of wedlock, Gianni. I don’t want a shotgun wedding. And you’re leaving for L.A. anyway.”

“Oh, fuck.” I palmed my forehead. “I forgot about Hot Mess. I’ll try to get out of it.”

“No! You can still do it.”

“But I’ll be gone for months, Ellie. The shoot is ten weeks long.”

“I know,” she said. “But the baby isn’t due until early October. And—and even then . . . you don’t have to do anything drastic. I understand the career path you want. I’ll be fine as a single mom.”

I frowned. “This is my child too.”

“I know it is, but I also know you, Gianni. I know what you want in life, and it isn’t this baby, it isn’t me, and it isn’t being stuck here.” Her eyes were shining, her lower lip trembled. “You like being free, remember?”

I was about to tell her she had no idea what I wanted when I remembered that wasn’t exactly true—we’d talked about this at the motel.

“I know what I said,” I began carefully, “but you have to give me a chance to adjust to this new”—I glanced at her belly—“development.”

“You told me the Hot Mess money was too good to pass up.”

“It is good money,” I conceded.

“And good exposure. A stepping stone.”

“But—”

“Look, this pregnancy was a mistake,” she said, fighting for control. “An unintended consequence of too much time together, too much snow, one small bed, and years of pent-up tension between us. I’m not suffering any delusions that we’re suddenly in love. And I’m not about to spend the next eighteen years of my life feeling like you gave up what you really wanted and settled for me just because we lost control one night at the Pineview Motel.”

I swallowed hard. “And tonight? What was that about?”

“Tonight was about anger. It was a temper tantrum, that’s all.”

I exhaled. Was she right?

“Go to L.A., Gianni.” She spoke softly now, all the anger gone. “When you get back, we can figure things out.”

I watched as the tears she’d tried to battle slipped down her face and felt like I was being torn in half. Part of me wanted to thank my lucky stars she was being so undemanding, run out the back door, and keep going until I hit California. But another part of me knew that would feel all wrong.

I remembered her telling me what she wanted in life—not just marriage and family, but the kind of love that filled a room. To know she was someone’s everything just by the way he looked at her.

This was . . . not that.

But my chest ached at the thought of a little Lupo boy, a troublemaker like his dad and uncles, or a sweet girl with huge brown eyes that melted my heart.

Just like Ellie’s were doing right now.

God, this was so fucking unfair. And as hard as it was for me, it was worse for her. She’d have to carry this baby for nine months and deal with everyone’s questions and judgment. Did she really want to do that alone?

Neither of us moved for a minute, and then I got up off the stool. She remained behind the marble island like it was a protective barrier, and maybe it was. But I wanted to be close to her. Put my arms around her. Hold her. Say the words out loud—everything is going to be okay.

But what came out was something else.

“Ellie, I’m—I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“You can stop apologizing. It’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t have said that.”