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His shoulders rise toward his ears. “My mom?”
“Yeah,” I enunciate. “We agreed to tell our parents after this. Unless you aren’t ready. I don’t want to push you.”
Nathan shakes his head. “I’ll tell her. What about you? How will you tell your parents?”
“Um, I was hoping you’d make the trip with me?” I bite my bottom lip and scrunch my face. “Please? They know you, and they like you,” I rush out. “I think Mimi is a lot less likely to make a scene in front of you, and my dad won’t be able to talk crap about you to your face.”
“Are you sure that’s the best idea? You said it yourself; we aren’t a couple. What will we tell them when they ask?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something, but that part doesn’t matter. I’d like it if they could see us as a united front and in this together, even if I’m not wearing your ring.”
The words slip out in my customary sarcastic manner, but I’m a hundred miles off the mark when his face falls behind his shades.
“Nathan, I’m sorry.” I wish I could snatch the words and stuff them back into my mouth. His fist is on the verge of crushing the pictures.
“No problem. I’m going to head back to the rig before Cami worries why it’s taking so long.”
My heart twists so violently I’m certain arteries will burst right out of my chest.
“Okay. See you.”
While he heads back to work, I make a pit stop at the local pharmacy. I’m browsing the annoyingly broad selection of prenatal vitamins suggested on my discharge papers when my phone vibrates.
Nathan: I’ll go with you. Just let me know when.
Me: This weekend?
Nathan: I’ll pick you up Saturday. 8 a.m.
Me: Sounds good. And Nathan?
Nathan: Yeah?
Me: Thank you.
Nathan: Not a problem.
8
Kiersten
By the time Saturday morning rolls around, I look as lively as a week-old banana. With only a few hours of sleep under my belt, I change my clothes and make a hot cup of coffee in a daze. Nathan rolls up to my driveway promptly at eight, looking like he just walked off the pages of a photo shoot. His sexiness is hazardous to my vagina, and I briefly reconsider my whole “we’re just friends” campaign.
His navy blue button-down hangs loose over a pair of jeans, and he’s wearing his signature brown boots. His hair has the just fucked style I adore. I glance down at my oversized red sweatshirt and black leggings. This ladybug outfit could be making a trip to Walmart.
“Here, let me help you with that.” He takes the bag by my feet that I thankfully had the forethought to pack last night and hauls it over his shoulder. “Anything else you need to grab?”
A yawn bubbles up, and I stifle it. “Nope, that’s it. Thanks, lover boy.”
He tosses my bag to the back of the cab. “This is for you.” His finger taps the lid of some sort of pink concoction in a plastic cup.
I wrinkle my nose. “What is it?”
Executing a perfect U-turn, he directs us to the highway out of town. “It’s a breakfast smoothie. Tastes sweet, but there’s some good stuff mixed in.”
“Give it to me straight. I’m not a five-year-old. What do you mean by good stuff?”
“I mean healthy. Just drink it. It’ll wake you up.
