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“Let’s just make this quick,” I add, feeling the weight of responsibility settle onto my shoulders.
Although I feel her eyes on me for most of the drive, I don’t acknowledge it. Instead, I try to memorize the key items I want to get. I know it’s only the top of the mountain, but I’ve already ordered a lot of stuff online. These are just the things I felt Gail should have a say in.
I found the one-stop shop amongst the blogs I scoured. “Preggo Paradise” as it’s called, claims to have all you need from the first to the last week of pregnancy—everything from food to blankets—and, of course, whatever you need after birth.
Reaching the shop, I park as close to the entrance as possible. Gail playfully waggles her eyebrows. “Afraid I’m too frail to walk?” she asks.
Instead of telling her the truth that yeah, kinda, I scoff. “Hardly.”
We get a shopping cart and make our way inside. “First stop, prenatal vitamins,” I mutter under my breath, squinting at the glow of my phone screen as I navigate the aisles. The list on my phone is a roadmap to Gail’s pregnancy—a journey plotted in bullet points and question marks.
“Which ones?” Gail asks, her fingers brushing against the myriad of bottles. Her touch is tentative, like she’s afraid to claim anything as hers.
“Uhh, this one here has DHA, whatever the hell that is.” I grab a bottle off the shelf, pretending I understand the significance of each ingredient. It’s all Greek to me, but last night’s crash course in mom blogs said it was important, so here we are.
I end up picking everything recommended by Mom32, and with every bottle I load into the cart, Gail’s frown deepens. “I’m not popping that many pills,” she exclaims, eyeing them with disdain.
Shrugging, I ignore her, not willing to compromise. If Mom32 and the books Dr. Patel recommended tell me to get something, I’m getting it—all of it. Even different variants.
“Healthy foods next,” I say more to myself than to her, steering us toward the organic section with a determination I don’t quite feel. My gut twists with a cocktail of emotions—resentment, concern, a weird protectiveness that has no right to rear its head.
“Organic, huh?” Gail’s lips quirk up in a half-smile as she picks up an avocado, inspecting it like it’s a foreign object. “I ate these before it became trendy.”
“Good, then you can teach me not to pick the rotten ones.” I chuckle despite myself, watching as she demonstrates how to check for ripeness. It’s absurdly normal, this moment between us, and it chips away at the frosty wall I’ve been constructing around her.
We pick up more fresh fruits and veggies and talk about food. Turns out Gail’s pretty much into eating any and everything at least once. “How about I tell you if there’s something I don’t like?” she says, exasperation coating her tone. “That way you don’t have to keep asking before every item you put into the cart.”
This is absolutely ridiculous. I should just make her get her own cart and put whatever she wants into it. Then again, with the way she’s eyeing the most fattening foods with barely contained lust in her eyes, she’d probably just pick steaks, ice cream, and… “What the hell? No, we’re not getting that.” I take the third tub of ice cream and the whipped cream from her hands.
Gail growls, actually fucking growls. “Give me back the ice cream, Soren.”
“No.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “So help me God, give me the ice cream right now or I’ll make a scene.” She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze full-on in a silent challenge.
I have no doubt she’d do it, and the thought of punishing her for it later makes my cock throb. Damnit. I discreetly rearrange myself, but not discreetly enough to avoid Gail’s self-satisfied smirk.
“Fine,” I relent. “Two tubs of ice cream and the chocolate sauce, but not the cream.”
She thinks about it for a second. “Fine,” she says. “But I still want the frozen pizzas.”
We continue to bicker and compromise our way through the food aisles. When we’re finally done, I realize I haven’t even won half the fucking arguments. Gail’s masterfully manipulated me, and I’m not even angry about it.
Our last stop is what the mom blog called ‘Cozy FTW’. When we reach the aisle, Gail goes crazy. She picks up every single blanket she likes the look of, and rubs it against her cheek. I quickly learn that she measures success by the cooing sounds she makes.
“Here, try this.” She bounces back to me, carrying a black one. Her fingers curling into the plush fabric, a vulnerable look flickering in her eyes that makes me want to look away. “It’s so soft.”
“It feels fine,” I say gruffly.
“It’s so soft I just want to take my clothes off and roll up in it,” she coos.
After touching it, I have to agree with her. It feels fucking awesome, and I wouldn’t be opposed to lying naked on it with her… no. Ahh fuck, no. Not going there. We’re only here out of obligation, there’s no way we’re going to play house for real.
For the rest of the shopping trip, I force myself to create more distance between us. I can’t risk being sucked in by the ease of the situation. For all I know, Mick’s right, and her jokes and easy banter are all just part of her plan to get some quick cash.
Logically, I know that doesn’t make sense since she’s given us back what we’ve paid her through Cupid’s Court. Or maybe she only did that so we’d let our guards down.
Yeah, no, I don’t believe that at all. If I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m actually into this—into Gail. Not just as a good whore to fuck, but beyond that. I felt it at Cupid’s Court, the pull I feel toward her is more than carnal desire. She’s the perfect woman for me and Mick. Not that I’ll tell her that.
