His eyes lift to mine.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I had gathered that.”
He says nothing.
I narrow my eyes.
“Zain?”
Then he moves.
One second I am standing beside the counter, and the next his arms are around me, holding me so carefully that my throat closes.
I laugh against his chest.
“You know I am not breakable.”
“I know.”
His hand spreads over my stomach.
He goes quiet again.
This time, I understand.
Our wedding was six months ago, small and loud and perfect. Joyce cried harder than I did. Bev brought enough pie to feed half of Whispering Pines. The fire crew claimed they were there to support their chief and then spent most of the night reminding him that everyone had noticed his interest in me long before he admitted it.
The cabin is not quiet anymore.
My paintings cover the walls. Orange cushions occupy the couch. There are plants everywhere, including a fern named Ivy Two, which Zain insists is a terrible name while watering her whenever I forget.
And now this.
A baby.
The family he once thought he would never have.
I pull back enough to look at him.
“You okay?”
His jaw tightens.
Then he nods.
“I’m happy.”
The roughness in his voice nearly undoes me.
I touch his face.
“Good.”
His hand remains over my stomach.
“I’m going to be a dad.”
