Page 58 of Kicking Up Dust

Well… I was.

Not enough for him to have noticed, though. I was being quiet. I wasn’t even sniffling or looking at him.

“I’m not,” I say, wiping away my tears.

“You are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I insist, feeling stupid for crying at all. These hormones are absolutely ridiculous and I hate them and I hate being pregnant and I hate everything in the whole wide world except my baby bear and her father.

Colt pulls over onto the grassy shoulder of the road and turns on his flashers, but I refuse to look at him because then he’ll know for sure that I’m crying. Over freaking macaroni and cheese.

“Can I see those pretty green eyes, baby?”

“No,” I tell him petulantly.

He sighs and gets out of the truck, which confuses me until he rounds the front of it and pulls my door open. His eyes soften when he sees my tears.

“Stop it,” I grumble, wiping my face.

“What’s wrong?”

I sniffle pathetically. “You said we could go to dinner after the classes, and I really wanted macaroni.”

Colt smiles, making his dimples pop as he reaches up to thumb away my tears. I’m not sure what exactly is a laughing matter, to be honest.

“We are going to go to dinner. I’m taking us home to change first. Cattleman’s is a bit dressy.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he agrees. “I’ll never break a promise I made you, baby. I swear.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

He shushes me with a kiss against my forehead.

“No apologies needed. My baby’s wreaking havoc on you. The least I can do is deal with some moodiness every once in a while. I just hate causing those tears.”

“You didn’t,” I say with another sniffle, feeling even stupider. I should’ve just asked instead of thinking he forgot and getting my feelings hurt for no reason.

He holds my hand the rest of the way home.

Cattleman’s does indeed have Kraft macaroni and cheese on the kids’ menu.

THIRTY-ONE

COLT

Blair turns in bed for what feels like the hundredth time. I’d already asked twice if she was okay, and she’d damn near ripped my head off for it, which was valid. She’d been exhausted after dinner, worn out from the long day of forced socializing and missing the nap she usually took in the early afternoon.

But as soon as we’d lain down to sleep, something had changed. She’d tossed and turned for the last hour, but sleep seemed to be evading her.

“Do you want to watch another episode of our show?” I risk asking, but she only huffs and pulls her pregnancy pillow up between her legs. I take it as a no and readjust myself around her new position. It’s pathetic how hard it is for me to sleep knowing she’s restless.

I don’t notice it right away. At first, I just take it as her shifting because she’s still uncomfortable. But then I realize it’s… rhythmic, like a pattern. Her hips moving forward, thighs tightening, then back again, and the realization has me grinning in the darkness of our bedroom.

“Are you grinding your pretty pussy against your pillow, mama?” I whisper in her ear, lucky enough to get to hear her breathing hitch as she realizes I’ve caught her.

“No,” she lies anyway.