Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Maybe we skipped the steps we didn’t need.”
Her smile fades into something quieter. “You don’t think we’re rushing it?”
“We’re not rushing. We’re just not waiting around for permission.”
She’s quiet several seconds. “Well, you’re very reassuring.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, and mean it. “We’ll figure it out together.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
“Whatever it is, I think it’ll be loud. And sassy.”
Her brow lifts. “So . . . like us.”
“Exactly like us.”
Her laugh is soft and warm, and I swear something shifts in my chest again—another click into place. Another quiet yes. Then her face changes as the screen of her phone lights up and she glances at it, smile freezing on her face.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sets the phone on the table and nudges it toward me. “Lucy sent this.”
A photo.
Of us. At this table. Right this second.
Blurry. Zoomed in. Grainy—but unmistakably us.
My jaw tightens. She sets the phone back down. “So much for privacy.”
Fuck. “I don’t want this to ruin the evening. Hold on.” I toss down my napkin, stand, and stomp toward the host stand.
The poor guy behind it is poking at the computer screen at the hostess desk when he spots me stalking toward him and freezes like a deer in headlights. “Sir—Mr. McBride. Can I help—”
“There’s someone taking pictures of me. Of us having dinner.” I jab a finger toward the booth. “In this building. In a private restaurant where I expect privacy.”
How many fucking ways must I say it? Do I Have to Spell It Out?
The man’s face goes pale. “I-I’m so sorry, I had no idea anyone—”
“I’m not mad at you,” I grind out, lowering my voice, trying not to make a bigger scene. “But someone is snapping photos while we’re sitting here and I’d love for it to stop.”
He fumbles with a headset. “If I find them, d-do you want them removed from the restaurant?”
“Please,” I snap, running a hand through my hair, frustration prickling at my scalp. I glance back at our booth to find Annabelle, gaze glued to the action.
Shit. I head back toward her, jaw clenched, and drop into my seat like the world just handed me a shitty curveball and I still plan to hit it out of the park.
“It’s handled,” I say, reaching for her hand again. “Security’s doing a sweep. Whoever it was won’t be bothering us again.”
Her brow furrows. “Is this going to get worse?”
“Probably,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
Annabelle shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll . . .” Get used to it. “Now, what were we saying? Oh. Baby.” She leans toward me. “Should I whisper?”
“No, babe, don’t whisper.” God, she’s cute.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after a beat. “About what this all means.”
“The baby?”
She nods. “And . . . everything else. Us. You. Me. What kind of parents we’ll be. What city we’ll live in. If we’ll kill each other before the baby even arrives.”
“Do you want to live somewhere else?”
Annabelle shrugs. “Not the city.”
Slowly, I nod. “That’s possible. Lots of my teammates only live in Arizona during the season. We’re scattered all over during our off time.” I hesitate. “I only live here full-time because . . . it’s only ever been just me.”
She glances up, and her voice is quiet. “I don’t need a white picket fence or anything. But I want space. Grass. A porch swing, maybe.” A pause. “Somewhere I can breathe.”
My chest clenches, because I want that for her. For us. “You’ll have it.”
She smiles at her plate for a second, then looks up. “Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when the baby comes?”
I lean back in the booth. “Of course I do. Every day now since we found out.”
“Do you think we’ll be okay?”
I nod slowly. “Sure—how hard can it be?”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Famous last words.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I’d be good at it—I just said I’d survive.”
“Pretty sure the baby is supposed to be the one doing the surviving, Callum.”
“Minor detail,” I mutter with a grin, watching her stab another bite of pasta. “I’ll learn fast. I’m coachable.”
Annabelle chews slowly, nodding like she’s mentally adding that to her list of things I say that give her hope. Her foot brushes mine under the table. It’s subtle, but it grounds me. All of this does. Candlelight. Her. The promise of something new.
And that’s when the thought plants itself.
She’s going back to Washington soon.
She’ll pack up. Board a plane. Return to that familiar house and her old routine, with this tiny piece of me growing inside her . . . and I’ll be here.
Unless . . .
Chapter 31
Annabelle
Another week, another photo turning up on the internet, somewhere in Maverick’s building without us knowing who took it.
I would say I’m getting used to this, but that would be a lie.