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The line cuts out, and I set my phone on the armrest.
“Man problems?” Sharon asks with a practiced air of nonchalance that doesn’t fool me for a second. She’s made it a part of her career choice to gather the town gossip, and who am I to obstruct her from doing just that? This town is so dang small that everyone’s already heard the news about me anyway.
“Yes,” I groan and readjust myself in the chair so I can use the built-in massager. The first tickle of vibrations feels so good that I promise to start scheduling prenatal massages on the regular. “Baby daddy drama.”
“Ah, honey. Tell me all about it. We have time.”
I close my eyes and lay back against the headrest. Story time.
“The sex was so off the charts it’s no wonder I got pregnant, and then I told him I wanted to be just friends.”
Sharon dries my foot and gets started on painting my toes. “Did you lie?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve never been good at relationships. But I’m confused how to go forward. Like how does one navigate carrying someone’s offspring at a friendship level? We’ve obviously broken every boundary that exists between just friends, and I’m not sure how to go back to the before.”
“So it’s about the sex.”
Is it about the sex? The mind-blowing, scorching, best I’ve ever had sex?
“Ugh, probably. I never considered that I’d be going nine months without getting some, and he is a fine, fine man, Sharon. My hormones are already going haywire.”
She switches to my left foot. “So ask him for sex.”
I blow my bangs off my forehead. “Not going to lie, it feels a little skanky.”
The incredulous look on her face is surprising and humorous at the same time. “Why? Do you expect him to be out there looking for his future wife right now just because you put him in the friend zone? He’s about to be a father. I’d bet he’s not out on the prowl right now either, and honestly, you two are probably having problems because neither of you are getting some.”
She makes a compelling argument, and I mentally jot down all her points in case I decide to throw them at Nathan later.
“You know what? I like you. Put me on your books for four weeks from now. You have a new regular.”
Sharon smirks and wipes off her hands. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about this baby daddy you have. If just the thought of him can make you blush like that, he must be one hell of a man.”
I straighten and pat the back of my hand against my flushed cheek. “Blushing? I’m not blushing. It’s hot in here, and my feet are soaking in a bath.”
“You are all blotchy, but sure, blame it on my water temperature.”
Two more days blow by since my pedicure and phone call with Nathan before I buck up the courage to invite him over. While I feel like we’re doing this the right, right way, we’re also doing this all wrong. Friendship shouldn’t be about avoiding one another. The label itself denotes we aren’t romantically involved. That doesn’t mean I don’t care for the man like I always have, even if I am now carrying his offspring. If anything, I care for him even more.
We shared not even twenty-four hours of sex followed by an additional freebie orgasm a week later, but our history spans far longer. The decade of friendship we’ve built should override the circumstances as of late.
Pulling up his name on my cell this time doesn’t send me into a nearly full-blown panic attack, but the phone rings and rings with no answer.
I’m not leaving him a message. For one, I don’t have an excuse for calling, and for two, I feel lame telling him that I just wanted his co
mpany. That could’ve been said over text. This feels harder than making a booty call, and that’s not even what I want to accomplish.
I toss my cell somewhere behind me on the couch and meander into the kitchen for an evening snack. Nothing makes me feel like a growing pregnant lady more than the extra two or three meals I consume in a day. I just can’t satiate the need to stuff food in my mouth, no matter the time of day.
I guess my hunger for food isn’t the only thing I’m having trouble satiating.
I bend over, ass in the air and head deep in the refrigerator, digging into the bowels of my shelves for something enticing to eat. A loud knock thunders my front door, jolting me upward in surprise. The back of my head collides against the top of the fridge, and I turn with a scowl. Peering through the glass pane at the top of my door isn’t the serial killer I envisioned round housing in the face for making me hit my head.
No, it’s the infuriating man who didn’t answer his phone.
Stomping to the door, I yank it open and lean against the jamb, barring entry to my house.
“Can I help you?”
