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“What do you say after we drop our bags off at the hotel, we go get a little bite to eat?” I offered, reaching over to squeeze Cassie’s luscious bare thigh. “Anything you and my little fetus want, Daddy will get.”
“Fine. But for starters, your fetus wants you to stop calling it a fetus.”
“Psssh. No problem. Do you know how many things I could call our little squash? So many—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No vegetables. I’m not growing a zucchini.”
“Noted. Oh!” I shouted, when another idea hit me. “Peanut.” I smiled. “Definitely not a vegetable.”
“No.”
“Spawn?”
“No.”
“Womb leech?”
“Don’t be a bunghole! You know it’s a little boy, so stop acting like a psychopath and start coming up with actual names.”
“Thatcher Jr.”
“Not a chance in a barrel of monkeys, T. One Thatcher is more than enough for any one woman to deal with. I’m already terrified about having another man with a Supercock complex. I don’t need to tempt fate by making him your namesake.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘complex’? I mean, the Supercock is, in fact, super, is it not? It’s not, like, some silly nickname or some shit.”
She sighed heavily, ignoring our new battle of wits completely and instead going back to my earlier question. “Fine. After we check in and see what’s going on, we can go get something to eat if you want.”
“I want to do what you want,” I corrected magnanimously. “Whatever food sounds good to you, you just let me know. I promise not to have a repeat of the Chipotle incident.”
“What Chipotle incident are you referring to?”
What the fluff? Is my little uterine-pen-pal sucking the memory out of my beloved wife or what? Surely she hasn’t actually forgotten the events of a couple days ago this quickly. Right?
“I-I…” I stuttered, searching for an excuse that wouldn’t end with a fist to my dick. The poor guy was already exhausted from the roller coaster of pregnancy hormones. Called to duty one minute, insulted the next. I needed to protect what little bit of ego the Supercock had left as if his life depended on it—as ifmylife depended on it. No man wanted to live his life with a brain-dead snake between his legs. “I don’t know. I think I may have hit my head. What day is it?”
“We’re here!” the Uber driver said suddenly, pulling to a stop in front of a little mom-and-pop-style hotel where the balconies all faced one another to encourage partying. It wasn’t the kind of place a billionaire and his new wife honeymooned—it was the kind of place teenagers could book without their parents’ permission.
The kind of motel hookers could rent by the hour and sketchy, midafternoon sex romps with side-chicks and side-dicks could occur.
Unless I wanted us all to leave Panama with a brand-new case of hepatitis, this was no place for my pregnant wife and unborn son.
Nope. Not happening. Not on my fucking watch.
“No,” I said immediately, shaking my head to emphasize the point.
“Sir?”
“Thatch—”
“No, Crazy. You know I’d sell my soul to make your tits happy, but we’re not staying here. Not a chance in fluffing hell. We’re staying somewhere nice, where my pregnant wife and I can relax without worrying about getting stabbed in the middle of the night.”
“I hate you.”
I nodded. “I know.”
