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“Probably,” I agree.
Although she’s the one that made the joke, hearing it seems to have made her miserable. “Oh, God, I’m going to have a baby daddy.”
“Let’s never use that terminology again,” I suggest.
“Why do you have to be such a life-ruiner?” she laments.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s genetic.”
Her shoulders slump and she sighs heavily. “No one even knows about you. How will I explain a pregnancy?”
“Whirlwind romance?” I suggest.
She glares at me sourly.
“What if we went away for a bit?” I suggest. “We’ll have to schedule your first appointment with a gynecologist, of course, but then we could go away for a while. I could show you my place in Paris, or we could spend some time at my flat in Italy. Go out on the boat, have dinners at the restaurant downstairs, just spend some quality time together so you’ll feel better about things.”
“Why would that make me feel any better?” she asks.
“What about London? I have a place there, too. You could do some shopping. Maybe we could catch another show.”
“I don’t want to go to any of your homes,” she says glumly. “I don’t even want to be in this one. Why don’t you just let me go? Don’t they say if you love someone, set them free?”
“They do, but I don’t subscribe to such noble notions. Why would I want to let someone I’m fond of go? Doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
“I don’t think, ‘if you like someone, imprison and impregnate them’ makes a whole lot of sense, either.”
“Of course it does.”
She shakes her head no, but she’s just being silly. It makes perfect sense.
Nodding at the bowl, I tell her, “Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
She pouts those perfect, bitable lips, which seems to be a trigger for me. I find it so goddamn adorable that I’d throw the tray off the bed and yank her under me right now if not for the traumatic night she’s already having.
I’m tempted to anyway, but she starts eating the soup, and I know she needs her nourishment, so I leave the tray undisturbed.
“Can I set an alarm for myself on your phone?”
“You’re still planning to go to work?”
“I have to,” she says. “Besides, I’m not sick.”
It’s hard for me to see her exhibiting signs of illness and not think she needs to stay snuggled away in bed all day, but I understand she’s right. It’s the growth of our little one in her beautiful body that’s making her feel ill, and that’s something she may have to deal with for weeks, so I suppose she can’t stay in bed the whole time.
“All right,” I say, grabbing my phone. I set the alarm since she asked me to, but I’ll be gone by the time it goes off.
I’ll transfer the alarm to hers in the morning, but right now she doesn’t know she’ll have her phone tomorrow, and I don’t tell her.
Once her soup is finished, I haul the tray to the kitchen while she brushes her teeth. We climb back into bed, and she turns on her side, sliding one arm under her pillow like she always does and wiggling until she’s comfortable.
I can’t help smiling. I love all of her little bed movements.
Fondness compels me to lean over and drop a kiss on her perfect lips.
It makes me so happy to know even now, my child is growing inside her body. I can’t wait until that makes her happy, too.
My little dove is distrustful of me, though. Even my kiss seems to arouse her suspicions. Her brow furrows and she watches me like she’s trying to decide what to make of me.
