Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(48)

“Just get some sleep,” I say, my throat tight, “and we can talk about it in the morning.”

She nods and settles back into the pillows.

I cover her up with the duvet and lie down beside her, holding her close. But inside, I feel hollow and raw.

Love is that thing that people write poems and songs about. An elusive, magical feeling that’s evaded me my entire adult life.

Now I’ve fallen headlong into it without my permission. And with a woman who doesn’t want the same things.





21




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Bump in the Road





Ana



I’m standing before the full-length mirror in Grant’s bedroom when I hear Hobbes barking at the front door. There’s a jangling of keys and then Grant walks in, home from running errands in under an hour.

His deep, familiar voice must be as soothing to Hobbes as it is to me, because the valiant little watchdog relents immediately. In the three months I’ve lived with Grant, they’ve really become besties. I can hear the jingle of Hobbes’s collar as he inevitably rolls over to show Grant his fluffy belly. Typical.

Grant’s soft murmurs carry pleasantly down the hall before he calls out to me. “I’m back!”

“Get over here!” I call back with a laugh. I can’t wait to show him.

“What’s up?” Grant says, stepping into his room with a furrowed brow. Always concerned.

“Stop worrying. It’s a good thing.”

I position myself in front of the mirror, standing sideways. Lowering the waistband of my yoga pants, I reveal the baby bump I’ve just discovered.

“Come here,” I whisper, reaching out with one hand to pull Grant toward me. “Look.”

“Is that . . .”

“The baby? Yes.”

We’re both staring at my belly in the mirror, a gleeful expression lighting up my features and an awestruck one on Grant’s. I’ve officially popped, as the new-mommy blogs call it. They all assured me that this is one of the best parts. I can see why.

“I noticed that my pants were feeling a little tight, and voilà. I now have a baby bump.”

“Incredible.” Grant breathes out, his hands hanging at his sides.

Does he want to touch? I almost offer, but think better of it.

“I need to buy new clothes,” I say quickly, pulling the waistband of my yoga pants back up. Uncomfortable, I wriggle a little. “Bigger clothes.”

“I’ll take you,” he says.

I look up at him with a beaming smile. “Really?”

It’s not that I love shopping. I’m just strangely excited to make the next moves in this new life of mine, even if those moves have a nasty price tag. Luckily, I’ve saved a little money . . . hopefully enough to buy a few pairs of maternity jeans and maybe a top or two.

“Really.”

We eat a little lunch before we go, my mother’s voice in my head insisting that I need to eat something before I go anywhere with a food court. But when we arrive at the mall, the scent of soft pretzels smothered in cinnamon sugar wafts across the court to my unsuspecting nose. Oh, wow.

“Shoot,” I mumble, my stomach growling. I just ate. This is ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?” Grant asks, using a soft touch to turn my shoulders so I’m looking at him.

“It’s dumb,” I say on a groan. “I’m just hungry again.”

“What do you want?”

“One of those dangerous cinnamon pretzels, but I’m stronger than my appetite,” I say firmly, nodding with resolve. “Let me just distract myself with baby things, and I’ll forget I want it.”

I scurry into the nearest baby boutique, ignoring the fact that everything inside looks like it would punch a huge hole in this week’s paycheck. I’m admiring a pair of tiny baby shoes with precious lacy ruffles when Grant finally joins me inside.

“Here you go,” he says, holding out a paper bag with the pretzel company’s logo winking at me from the side. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

My mouth waters as I blurt out a thank-you. I tear open the bag and inhale that sugary sweetness, savoring the scent before I demolish the pretzel in four bites. I try to be as dainty as possible, though, since Grant is watching.

“This is everything,” I murmur between bites.

Grant chuckles, reaching out to smooth some hair off of my cheek and tuck it behind my ear. His eyes and his hand are both so warm, melting me with his sweet affection.

This man is going to be the death of me.

We walk around the mall for an hour, stopping in every store that promises a clearance section. Grant won’t let me pay for a single thing. It’s almost frustrating how chivalrous he can be. I decide not to make a big deal out of it, though. I know he’s just trying to help. When I put an expensive lavender maternity dress back on the rack because the price made me pale, he steps aside to pay for it. I try not to notice.

With three bags full—the two largest in Grant’s insistent hands—we call it quits. There’s certainly more left to buy, but it can wait. On the walk back to the car through the parking garage, I realize that I’m rambling about cribs.

“I’m sorry.” I laugh, tossing my bag into the trunk of Grant’s car. “There’s just so much left to buy. Maybe I need a rocking chair like the one my mom had. Or maybe I just want one. I don’t know.”