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Good. Because if there’s one thing August deserves, it’s spoiling.
Like a beacon for my emotional distress, Cass jogs over, acting nonchalant but staring very intently at me, slumped against Luna. “Everything okay?”
Staring at her brother with a look I can’t decipher, Amelia pats my shoulder. “Just teaching Sunday how to be loved.”
Very pointedly, Cass ignores her, keeping his focus on me. “Tag-teaming you this morning, hm?”
Don’t read into that. For the love of God, Sunday, do not read into that.
Luckily, he doesn’t give me the chance to. Brow creasing, he tuts at the thermos I’m cradling like it’s a flask filled with moonshine. “Is that coffee?”
Sensing where this is going, I abruptly straighten and hold up a hand. “Do not start with me.”
Cass doesn’t heed my warning. “Little Thursday Lane can’t have coffee.”
My eyes narrow. “Baseball Morgan can have one cup a day.”
“If they have two heads, that’s on you.”
Pressing the rim to my lips, I maintain eye contact as I take a long, dramatic sip. “More to love.”
Dark eyes roll as Cass crouches to dip into the bag at my feet. Retrieving a Tupperware, he sets it on my lap. “Here. At least pretend to be healthy. For my sake.”
“Yeah, Sunday.” Luna nudges me. “Can’t stress a man out at his age.”
Cass pretends to stomp on her feet. “You’re only two years younger than me.”
“That’s, like, a decade in girl years.”
Whatever Cass’ retort is, I don’t hear it. I’m too busy trying to decipher why he brought a tub of peaches to practice. Gently kicking his shin to regain his attention, I laugh. “Peaches?”
If he was capable of such a thing, I swear Cass would look bashful. “Fourteen weeks today, right?”
My amusement dies.Peaches.
I’m an asshole.
For avoiding a man who brings me fruit corresponding to the size of our child, I am the world’s biggest asshole.
And for finding that incredibly attractive, I’m a horny little shit.
23
SUNDAY
The next week,a fruit basket consisting of only pears arrives on my doorstep.
There’s a card tucked among them, scrawled with a godawful drawing of me with what I’m assuming is a pear-shaped fetus in my belly, neat cursive words printed above it.
Pear April Lane. I think we have a winner.
I hate myself for how hard I laugh.
Pickle eyes my present with ambivalence as I move it to the kitchen counter. He sniffs it once before determining it inedible and flicking his yellow gaze my way, meowing a demand.
“Really?” I reach into the cabinet above my head to retrieve one of the jerky-like treats my cat loses his mind for. “You don’t want fifty pears? Are you sure?”
He blinks slowly.Positive.
