“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”
“I’ll bring the platter.”
“Lucy—”
“I’ll polish it,” she threatens.
“Stop.”
“Should I add a lace napkin under the pee stick, or do we want to keep it rustic?” I can practically hear her tapping her chin in thought.
“This is all easier said than done.”
“Annabelle—as far as the world knows, you’re married to this man.”
True.
I stand from the bed and walk to the mirror, giving myself another once-over, adjusting the mop on top of my head.
“Oh!” She gasps. “Option four!”
“I’m listening.” With bated breath.
“You tell him you didn’t get your period and that you went to the pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test—then you take another one, pretending you’re taking it for the first time.”
“Lucy.” I inhale. “That isgenius.”
“I know! He doesn’t know that you know he knows!”
Exactly!
My stomach lurches—from nerves or excitement and all the things.
Forsurenerves.
’Cause what else could it possibly be?
I hang up with Lucy and go to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Adjust the bun on top of my head again, brushing it and tidying it up. Wash my hands.
Then make the slow, funeral-march-style walk from the bedroom to the living room, where Maverick is sitting on the couch calmly. Relaxed. One sock on, one sock off. Legs stretched out, feet up on the coffee table. Not a care in the world ...
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey.” He pats the cushion next to him. “You feeling okay?”
That’s the problem—I haveno ideahow I’m feeling.
For a few glorious minutes, when we were tangled up on the couch and I was grinding on him like a woman with no secrets, I forgot. Forgot about my missing period. Forgot about the pee stick in the trash. Forgot about our half-joking conversation about having kids.
And I definitely do not give a crap about the media.
Which—to be fair—hasn’t impacted me yet. We’re still living in our blissful bubble.
Call me naive, but I don’t have much of a public social media presence even though I have a small business, and let’s be honest: I come from such a small town, nobody there is going to care that I accidentally married a professional athlete. Right?
Just the men, maybe?
No one will care . . .
