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“Dr. Ross said something about the right foods for the first trimester,” he says, now pulling out his phone and typing hurriedly. “I’m getting my assistant to drop off some of the food items. They should arrive in the next hour. But you should probably take a bath.”
I look down at my rumpled pajamas and house coat, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“Right,” I say. But all I want to do is talk to Bran, to find out why he still looks so worried even after we know everything is going to be okay.
Unless he is still a little worried about me…
I shuffle towards the bedroom, dismissing the thought for the second time today. Still, it’s hard not to admit I’ve thought of that over the past few days and weeks, ever since Bran and I slipped into a cordial relationship.
I’ve thought of what that means forus.
I would have never in a million years thought of myself as the kind of woman who would want a baby. But now that I desperately want one, it has made me aware of all the other things Iwant.
Such as a stable, two-parent family to raise the baby.
My parents weren’t perfect, but their tight connection was one of the reasons I became an emotionally stable adult. Andrea, my best friend, got the short end of the stick. Her mom died, and her dad raised her as an emotionally unavailable, single parent. She was plagued with insecurities all through college and afterwards.
I did not want that to happen to my child. No matter what.
I strip off my clothes in front of the shower and slip inside, my thoughts still roaming in my head.
Yes, I wanted my child to be loved by two parents who lived in the same house.
But how could I even know if Bran wanted that? Reading the article Danielle compiled about him had given me a huge insight into his romantic life. Bran did not seem like a man who had everbeen in love. He only dated women who threatened him in some way, and he used romance as a means of control.
He wants our child, yes, but how do I know he wants anythingmore than that?
And how could I live with myself if I’m bound to someone who can’t stand me for the next eighteen years?
I step out of the shower after a few minutes and shrug on one of the dresses I only ever wear in my apartment. The moment I step back into the living room, I’m aware of the overpowering scent of Chinese takeout.
Bran is in my kitchen, his brows furrowed as he pulls out food items from a paper bag.
He looks up when he hears me. “My assistant just dropped this off,” he says. “Wish I could tell you what goes where, but I hardly do my own cooking.”
I bite back a smile as I take a seat behind the kitchen counter. Somehow, I can’t help picturing Bran fumbling in the kitchen over and over. Only, this time, it’s not thiskitchen. It’s one in a tiny little house in the suburbs, where myself and my daughter are laughing at his inability to cook.
Thatimage does not displease me as nearly as I thought it would.
I push it out of my mind as I nod toward the other unopened package. “Chinese?” I ask.
“Has a lot of spices and vitamins,” he says with a shrug. “Dr. Ross recommended it.”
I open my mouth to say something, but Bran beats me to it. Coming around the counter, he locks my gaze with his.
“I would have never forgiven myself if anything happened to you.”
My heart misses a beat.He means the baby,I scream in my head, begging myself not to believe his words.
But I can’t do that. The truth is written plainly in his eyes.
I want to say something, but I’m completely and utterly lost for words. There is nothing to say.
Bran appears to think the same thing. Because he cups my cheek with his palms, bends over, and kisses me.
Over the past month, I’ve been too obsessed with the baby to focus on my sexual feelings for Bran, so much so that I no longer felt myself cowering under the immense sexual tension our bodies seem to share.
Thatfeeling comes back in the breath of that kiss.
