He doesn’t have to hear me to know that I’ve responded. He has watched my morning rituals daily for nearly a month now, and two or three times a week for about six months before that. He understands I’m inevitably running behind and that I mutter when I’m annoyed. He recognizes that I am always as tired when I get up as I was when I went to bed because I never, ever manage to get enough sleep. I’m a cop—a homicide detective. I eat, drink, and breathe my work. And sometimes I manage to sleep with the monsters stuck in my head, but not nearly often enough.
And now I’m pregnant.
Charles David Preston II, fondly called David to prevent any confusion with his father, Charles, was well aware of these facts before he pushed me to move in with him. Before he insisted it was time we progressed to the next level in our relationship and became engaged. I agreed to all his demands,however grudgingly, for no other reason than to make him happy—not because I don’t want to be with him or I don’t love him, and not even that I’m anything less than as committed as he is. The truth is, I’m not good with change. But I took the plunge into all-out rapid-fire commitment ... for him. Because he wanted to move up the timeline. Because loving him terrifies me on every single level of my being. And because some part of me has suddenly become convinced that I don’t deserve him, and I despise the idea that he makes me feel so fragile in that regard.
He dragged me to this new level with his eyes wide open. I am not a morning person. I’m an even worse housemate. I might very well be terrible wife material—I’m certain his parents are still in shock over the announcement.
And I am most assuredly not mother material.
I exhale a ragged breath as I shuffle across the kitchen, with its gleaming white cabinets and shiny black-and-white diamond-patterned floor tiles. From the soaring ceilings to the polished wood floors filling most of the luxurious rooms, this classic two-story is every inch the epitome of his mother’s design style. The furnishings alone likely cost more than I make in three or four years of hard work as a detective. Not to mention his top-of-the-line Mercedes parked in the triple-car garage.
This is not my life—it’s his, and I am not certain I fit into it. How did I not notice this before now?
I grab a mug and pour coffee into it, then head for the door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the idea that caffeine is not a good thing while pregnant flits around.
David pauses at the bottom of the stairs, thatcaught youexpression on his face. A sigh drains out of me. This—being here, being us—is suddenly, utterly exhausting.
“So you’re leaving? Now? No breakfast? Not even a minute or two for quality time with me? I feel like we need to talk about last night.”
I am leaving and I cannot eat for fear of vomiting. If I mention the latter, there will only be more questions. “Got a call. I have to go. I don’t have a nine-to-five job, David. You know this. I don’t understandwhy my work is suddenly such a sticking point for you, but this is what I do.”
His lips compress for a second, then two, while he searches for a different strategy. Christ, I know him so well.
I love so many things about him. Why has everything abruptly changed? Why all at once are we both so determined to torture each other?
Or maybe it’s just me. That whole I’m Not Good Enough syndrome.
“What about all these boxes, Liv?” He gestures to the pile a few feet away. “Are you ever going to unpack and actually start living here, or is this nothing more than the new place where you shower and sleep?”
I consider the stack of boxes I reluctantly packed and moved from the farm where I grew up to his stately foyer right here in Belle Meade, where so many of Nashville’s rich and famous reside. The boxes do sort of block the view into the dining room. The drab brown color certainly clashes with the elegant decor. I’m sure it drives him crazy.
This morning, however, the boxes are merely something to use as fuel for more unpleasant discourse. He can’t really yell at me for doing my job.
Not fair, Liv. You aren’t exactly making any of this easy.
I look into his green eyes—the eyes that charmed the pants right off me the first night we met—and remind myself that I love this man. I plan to spend the rest of my life with him. Evidently, I will be bearing his child.
Guilt straddles my shoulders, so I walk over to him, go up on tiptoe, and give him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And I will unpack the boxes. Soon. See you later. Gotta go.”
Then I walk out the door.
He says nothing. He’s not happy.
But I’m the one who’s pregnant.
A couple minutes later, Walt’s Tahoe enters the U-shaped drive and stops in front of the house. I hustle down the steps, leaving my mug on the porch. I have no desire to go back inside and continue the fight that actually started last night—which is exactly what would happen. The issue is that I wantto delay the wedding from the day after Thanksgiving until April of next year. I told him I needed more time.
Of course, that was before the pregnancy tests I took this morning, all four of which I tucked inside a trash bag in the bin next to the garage while I waited for Walt. It’s not that I don’t like kids and don’t want any of my own. It’s not even that I don’t want to get married. I’m just not certain now is the right time. This year has been insane. My father died not even three months ago, the month before I turned thirty. On top of those life-altering events, I agreed to marry the man I love and move into his house—into his life. I feel as if my life is spinning out of control. All I want is to slow things down a bit.
Except now the timeline is completely beyond my ability to manage.
The distant ache in my skull that I woke up with deepens as I climb into the passenger seat and reach for the seat belt. I push away the madness of my personal life and study my partner as he guides his SUV away from the house.
“You look like I feel,” I warn.
He glances at me, his eyes bloodshot, his face haggard. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
I breathe a laugh. “Me, either.”
