Page 81 of The Trouble with Flings

“Rush keeps calling himself the pit crew and flexing at me,” Jayla says, bringing me back to our conversation. She still looks at him like he hangs the moon, and he looks at her like he will hang that moon and all the stars until he’s buried six feet under.

That’s what I want. The kind of father that puts family first and a love that never wavers, even in the toughest of times.

“And you love every minute of it,” I say.

“Yup. But enough about my hot hubby and adorable kids. I wanted to make sure you’re still picking up the cake for Mom and Dad’s anniversary.”

Shoot. With everything going on, I completely forgot their anniversary is next weekend. I turn to my keyboard and type in the bakery’s name. “Yes.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Jayla asks.

“No. I just delayed remembering. But I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

“Red velvet with chocolate frosting,” we say in unison as I place the order, and then we laugh. It’s our parents’ favorite, and nothing else will do.

“I’ve got to run,” Jayla says. “Love you.”

“You too.” I end the call, finish placing the order, and then gaze absently out the window. I have to tell my family about Fitz and the baby. My nerves prickle. I imagine every reaction they might have. The good, the bad, and the infuriating, and swallow hard against the uncertainty clogging my throat.

I think about my mother. Was she scared when she found out she was pregnant with Jace? Was he planned? Did she lie awake at night worrying, like I do, about how she’d be able to do it all and whether she’d screw him up? Or did she and my dad have it all figured out?

Worries ricochet through my mind. Not just about my family, but about work and me and Fitz, the health of our baby, childbirth. The books paint a fairly straightforward picture, but I’ve delved into a few pregnancy forums, and there were some truly horrifying stories on them. Needless to say, those forums are a forbidden zone for me from now on.

One thing at a time.

I’ll bring the cake and my mother’s favorite flowers. We’ll celebrate my parents’ anniversary at the dining room table where I grew up—sometimes enjoying and often annoyed by family dinners that I took for granted until I was older and heard stories about broken families and the horrors some kids went through—and then I’ll tell my family about the baby and Fitz and deal with whatever comes next.

When I get home, I drop my bag on the table by the door and step out of my heels, shedding the stress of the day with them.

The buzzer from the front door sounds, and my heart skips with the ridiculous notion that Fitz might be on my doorstep. I don’t allow myself to overthink the hope in that thought as I press the intercom and say, “Yes?”

“Delivery for…Little Bean and Wild Girl.”

It’s not Fitz, but the smile stretching across my face is unstoppable as I buzz the delivery person up. By the time he makes it up three flights, my heart is racing with anticipation.

He hands me two bags from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant. I take them inside and open them like a kid on Christmas morning. The savory scents stir my hunger as I set each container on the surfboard. Lamb tagine, couscous with golden raisins and toasted almonds, and baklava. All my favorites. I immediately take a bite out of the baklava. Layers of rich, buttery phyllo dough break apart in my mouth, melting into the sweet honey and crushed walnuts, and for a moment, all is right in my world.

“Mm.” I set down the remaining pastry and lick the stickiness from my fingers. “Your daddy is something else, Little Bean.”

The words settle in the silence of my apartment, and I freeze.

Holy cow.

I just talked to our baby.

Anxiety prickles my skin again, but before it can take hold, something warmer comes over me. A soft laugh escapes. I look down at my hand resting on my stomach, and a smile tugs at my lips. I reach for my phone to text Fitz but think better of it.

“Should we call him?” I pause, half expecting an answer. “We should call him.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fitz

I dribble the basketball down the pavement of the old court behind the high school, the March wind biting at my skin. After too many days spent too far away from Jennifer, I needed to blow off some steam, so I threw together a pickup game after work with my buddy Ryan Lacroux, a local cop who’s raising his nephew, and Grant and me, against Wells, Jock Steele, and Jamison Remington, who’s in town from DC for a few days.

“You’re too slow, bro!” Wells shouts, lunging to cut me off.

I fake left and spin right. “Eat my dust,” I shoot back, passing the ball to Grant, who’s sprinting toward the basket. His prosthetic leg has never slowed him down.