Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(52)

Everything in this room is exactly what I want. A wife. A baby. A home filled with love and respect, and a shared sense of purpose. I’ve been alone my whole adult life. I’m ready for more, ready to settle down with a good woman.

But Becca’s right—I can’t force Ana. She has to want to choose me. And not just because some piece of paper says I’m the father of her baby, but because I’m the man she wants by her side.

And if she doesn’t?

I have no fucking clue what I’ll do.





23




* * *





Time to Go





Ana



Tapping the sides of my phone with my thumbs, I try to keep myself occupied with the little screen until Grant comes home from practice. He’s running late, which he kindly told me via text message nearly forty minutes ago, so I went ahead and ate dinner without him. His portion sits in the fridge, waiting for him to come home.

Just like me, sitting at the kitchen counter, picking at a woven placemat with one finger . . . waiting for Grant to come home.

For the first time in a while, I regret opting out of the social media craze. It would be a nice escape to scroll through someone else’s life for once. Instead, I’m laser focused on two pieces of information that I will be dutifully relaying to my lovely host and potential baby daddy.

It’s a girl. I practice saying it without bursting into tears, mouthing the words silently.

I found out at today’s appointment when the nurse showed me the ultrasound photos. I didn’t want to know at first and kind of put it off, but today I was ready for them to tell me. It seems all the more real the bigger my belly grows.

The sight of that little nugget paired with the knowledge that I’m the mom of a tiny, precious little girl completely destroyed any resolve I had going in. I wept for joy in front of the ill-equipped nurse, who left me with a box of tissues to cry it out for as long as I needed to. And cry I did. I wasn’t even sure why I was so emotional—maybe because this all finally feels real.

Now, the second piece of information isn’t nearly as miraculous. Earlier this month, I found a small two-bedroom apartment in Wedgewood, just a few miles north of Grant’s condo. It’s cozy and semi-furnished, with a brick interior, tons of natural light, and a dog-friendly courtyard. Perfect for me. I contacted the landlord and worked out the particulars, dropping a sizable amount of this month’s paycheck on the initial security deposit. Which wouldn’t have been possible without all the extra income I’ve saved living with Grant rent-free.

Today, I got the confirmation that I can move in as early as tomorrow. With most of my belongings already packed away into boxes, it only took me an hour to get my travel bag packed and ready. I’m all set to go. Now I just need to tell Grant.

I’m zoning out, completely lost in the blurry photo I asked the nurse to snap of the ultrasound machine’s screen, when the front door opens. Hobbes barrels from the back of the condo, where he was up to God knows what, and makes himself a nuisance at Grant’s feet.

I lean from my spot at the counter, calling out, “Hey!”

“Hey,” comes Grant’s response between murmurs to the dog. When he finally comes into my line of sight, he has a panting, elated Hobbes tucked under one arm.

My heart warms at the odd pair and their bizarre friendship. Who knew?

“Sorry I’m late.” Grant sighs, his hair windblown and his cheekbones red with Seattle chill.

My impulse is to jump up and smooth his hair for him, brush those cheeks with my fingertips . . . but instead, I sit on my hands.

“You’re fine.” I smile, nodding my head to the fridge. “Your dinner is in there. It’s quiche.” A variation on the very meal he made for me the first night I stayed here.

“Awesome.” Grant chuckles, setting Hobbes down on the floor, who whines in dismay.

There’s a comfortable silence for a few minutes as I watch Grant putter around the kitchen, poking his head in the fridge, carrying his plate to the microwave, and filling a tall glass with water as the microwave thrums with the promise of a hot dinner.

With my elbow propped on the counter, I lean my cheek against my knuckles. I love watching this man, this superhero of a human, operate like a regular person. The way his giant hand wraps around the tiny microwave handle, all while juggling his drink and a small bowl of salad in the other, makes me giggle. His eyes are twinkling with good humor when he joins me, making himself comfortable next to me at the counter with a relieved sigh.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Oh, if you must know . . . you,” I say weakly, trying to contain the sadness quickly overtaking my voice.

Of course Grant sees right through me. He finishes chewing his first bite, his eyes narrowed in an I know you better than that way.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, setting his fork down.

“Do you recognize those flavors?” I say, pointing to his steaming plate. Ignoring well-intentioned questions isn’t my usual move, but I’m desperate for a little small talk. Just to start.

Grant opens his mouth to call me out on my subject change, but thinks better of it. With one eyebrow adorably quirked up and the other down, he inspects the quiche with the concentration of a detective on his most gruesome case yet. I cover my smile with my fingers.