Page 78 of The Trouble with Flings

She sighs into the kiss.

There it is. Her sweetest surrender.

This woman has a hold on me like nothing ever has. Knowing she’s carrying my baby makes our connection, and the current blazing between us, that much richer. I slow us down, one hand spreading across her back, needing her to feel exactly how much I want to follow her inside and forget my promise.

I pull back before I’m too far gone.

Her eyes flutter open, the hunger in them clawing at me. Fuck. I didn’t think it was going to be this hard to leave. I crush my lips to hers again, trying to quell my insatiable desire for her, to fill what appears to be an endless well.

Which is exactly why I have to stop before she drags me under. I force myself to break the kiss, both of us breathing raggedly.

“Fitz—”

“I know,” I say quietly. This is torturous. “I’ve got to go before I make myself into a liar.” As I say it, another unexpected, visceral urge hits, and I don’t even try to stop it.

I drop to one knee and gently place my hands on her stomach, lowering my voice and letting my heart spill out. “Hey, Little Bean. I’ve only known about you for a day, but I already love you. I don’t know how that’s possible, but one thing you can count on with me is if I say it, it’s true.” I press a kiss to Jennifer’s stomach and say, “You take care of Daddy’s girl.”

As I stand, Jennifer’s eyes are damp with tears that I know she won’t let fall. Every part of me wants to take her inside and make love to her, to reassure her that we can do this. But I know how she overthinks and tricks herself into believing the wrong things. She’ll spin out, picking us apart, building a case against herself. It took her three weeks and a sonogram to realize she wanted this baby. I have to give her space to realize she wants me, too.

I caress her cheek and kiss her tenderly. “Take care of our little bean, sweets.”

I head down the hall and descend the stairs before I can change my mind, my hand trailing down the banister. As I push through the doors and hit the sidewalk, every iota of my being begs me to turn around.

But proving Jennifer can trust me, proving I’ll stick to my word no matter what, and showing her I’m not just another asshole who will hurt her, is worth every torturous step.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jennifer

By the time I finally sit down at my desk Thursday afternoon, it’s nearly four o’clock. I have a dozen browser tabs open on my computer, a cold cup of coffee on my desk that I don’t remember making, and about a million thoughts ping-ponging through my mind.

My day started with a scuffle between two juniors. I broke it up and spent the better part of two hours interviewing each student, trying to separate the facts of what actually happened from the versions they each want me to believe. I asked Clare to pull the camera footage so I can see if there were witnesses, since the other students scattered when I appeared in the hallway. Nobody wants to be guilty by association. Then an IEP meeting ran long, the way they always do when a family has been fighting the system for years and has finally learned to fight back. I don’t blame them. I stayed until every question was answered, and I now have a list of things to follow up on. The budget rework I promised myself I’d finish two days ago is only half-done. There’ll be no good adjustments on that front, only less bad ones, but at least that’s something.

In between all of that, I was in and out of three classrooms, handling a formal observation in first period and walkthroughs for the others, watching, filing things away, thinking about conversations I need to have this week with two teachers. One of them is underperforming and capable of so much more, and the other is performing exactly as well as she always has and deserves to hear it.

There’s nothing unusual about today’s pace. I’ve always thrived on the constant triage, but between the hallway situation and midday, I noticed my energy flagging, as it has been the last few weeks. I feel like a phone running on fifteen percent when I’m used to being fully charged.

I pushed through it the way I push through everything, but I don’t like the feeling of being less than. Even for a good reason.

My phone lights up on the desk with a text.

Fitz: Hey, wild girl. I started another book last night. Apparently you need more protein. Just flagging it for you.

A smile tugs at my lips. He’s been sending me snippets of advice since we bought the pregnancy and parenting books two weeks ago. We added three more books to his collection last weekend, and I swear every day there’s a new revelation—the best sleep positions for various stages of pregnancy, pleading a case for prenatal yoga, which I will never do, the importance of staying hydrated, and a surprisingly passionate multi-text diatribe about the value of white-noise machines. Each one delivered with the same calm certainty Fitz brings to everything, as if he’s been studying for a test nobody assigned him. It’s touchingly thoughtful.

I consider adding an egg to my breakfast tomorrow as I thumb out my response.

Me: What did I say about that book?

Fitz: You said burn it, but I know you didn’t mean it.

My eyes narrow, but before I can respond, another text rolls in.

Fitz: I could come by and personally supplement your protein intake.

A winking emoji pops up, followed by a devil emoji, conjuring images so vivid and enticing, my thoughts trip up.

My mind circles back to our good-night kisses, and my heart races. We’re still taking things slow, but not as slow as the first weekend we found out I was pregnant. Last weekend Fitz came to see me again. We had fun knocking around the city during the day and made out like horny teenagers at night, groping and kissing like we needed each other to survive but not taking things further.