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.
The comments beneath the photo aren’tmean, exactly. Not this time.
Invasive, sure.
Like everyone suddenly thinks they have a stake in my body and appearance. What I wear. How I don’t look like a WAG. I’m not “hot” enough. Whether or not my expression means I’m “glowing” or “miserable” or “hiding something.”
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I sink back with a sigh, one hand drifting to my stomach. Still no bump yet. Nothing anyone else would notice but me, possibly Maverick. But I feel it. The constant bloat. The tight waistbands I’ve given up on in favor of leggings at only four or so weeks. My favorite jeans are somewhere in Washington, but even if they were here, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Wouldn’t dare fit. I’ve been living in Callum’s T-shirts like they’re part of my DNA now, but I’m not complaining, they are so comfy.
“Ahh.”
I breathe in the quiet, enjoying it. Any second now Maverick will come busting through the door from his meeting and I’ll—
Three weeks.
I’ve been here almost three weeks.
Swimming in the rooftop pool. Taking walks around town in the evening after the sun has gone down, many times stopping for ice cream.
