The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (129)

It was one Sunday afternoon when Lexi had stayed with us the night before, and Remy just looked at me while we were sitting on the couch watching Lexi play with Izzy and said, “Let’s get married today.”

So, we did. With Izzy as my Daughter of Honor and Lexi as Remy’s Best Niece, we said “I do” at the courthouse. Just me, Remy, Izzy, and Lexi in attendance.

Normally, you can’t get married at the courthouse on a Sunday, but it definitely helped that Remy does investments for the mayor and could also guarantee Mavericks’ fifty-yard-line game tickets to the justice of the peace who ended up coming in on his day off.

It might seem crazy to have done it that way, but with Ty and Rachel’s wedding on the horizon, we didn’t know when we’d get to do it the big way, and we didn’t want to wait.

And I still think it was the best idea we’ve ever had.

When I realize it’s nearing noon, I decide to get my ass out of bed and take a shower so I can start preparing the food for tonight. Ever since Remy and I decided to sell our apartments and buy a brownstone not far from Winnie and Wes, we’ve been alternating playing hostess.

And tonight, Winslow Family Dinner will be at our house.

The instant I crawl out of bed, I don’t miss the way I ache from between my legs—courtesy of the hot sex Remy and I had at three in the morning last night. I also don’t miss that my breasts feel sore and my lower back has decided to let me know I’m forty-three now.

Being middle-aged is a real bitch.

I tiptoe into our master bathroom and make quick work of a shower.

Once I’m out, dried off, and standing in front of the sink to brush my teeth, my eyes catch sight of the two rings on my left ring finger.

I’m married. To Remy Winslow.

My smile grows bigger, but also, surprisingly, tears start to fill my eyes.

Damn, we’ve come a long way, he and I. We’ve both been through incredibly hard times. And somehow, we found our way back to each other.

Thank everything.

The stupid tears are now streaming down my cheeks.

Sheesh. I’m emotional these days.

I almost want to laugh at how ridiculous I’ve been lately, but when I lean down to spit the toothpaste into the sink and accidentally bump my boobs against the counter, the responding shooting pain from my nipples stops me dead in my tracks.

Damn, those suckers are sensitive today.

I stare at my naked breasts in the mirror.

And a bit on the big side too…

My brain takes inventory of my current state—emotional, sensitive boobs, migraines, lower back pain—and I drop my toothbrush onto the counter.

No way, right? No fucking way.

I mean, I’m forty-three. There’s no way I’m pregnant.

I look at my boobs again in the mirror, and when I notice that my nipples are red as fucking roses, I decide it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to just make sure that I’m not pregnant.

Obviously, I’m not. I mean, that would be crazy. But I’ll just grab a test at the grocery store while I’m out getting stuff for dinner tonight.

Yeah. That’s exactly what I’ll do.

Just in case.




Maria

An hour later, I’m surrounded by six pregnancy tests, all out of their boxes, and all freshly peed on by yours truly.

I don’t know what made me take six of these fuckers, but here we are.

I set my phone timer to the recommended five minutes and head back into the kitchen to start cutting up some fruit and vegetables while I wait on the confirmation that I’m not pregnant.

And I almost want to laugh at myself that I’m even taking these tests. I mean, if anything, I’m probably nearing freaking menopause, not another round of motherhood.

My phone’s alarm goes off, and I wash my hands in the sink before heading back into our bathroom to check the results. You know, the ones that are going to say, You’re not pregnant, you’re just a little crazy.

I grab the first one off the counter and look down at it—Pregnant.

What the…?

Instantly, I start picking up the other five sticks.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.





Pregnant.


Holy shit! I’m not in menopause! I’m with child!

I stare at myself in the reflection of the mirror, and I look exactly how a forty-three-year-old woman with a nine-month-old baby who just found out she’s pregnant would look. Absolutely freaked out.

How am I pregnant? I’m on birth control!

“Oh, c’mon, Maria. You’re old enough to know that birth control isn’t pregnancy-proof. Only abstinence is,” I muse, now talking to myself. “And since your husband is crazy hot and you just looooove having sex with him, abstaining is out of the question for you.”

Remy and I are going to have a baby.

Izzy is going to have a little sister or little brother.

Holy fucking shit.

Wide-eyed, I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how I’m going to manage making dinner for the entire Winslow gang now.

And when should I tell Remy? Before or after dinner tonight?

Instantly, I’m reminded of the big surprise he’s planned for his brothers.

“After,” I tell myself. “Yeah, definitely after. And looks like we’re all going to be eating pizza tonight.”