Page 22 of Wicked Brutal

“Apparently my face has a reputation.”

“It does.”

He pushes the bottom of my shirt aside and lays his palm gently, warm, over my stomach. “Hey, tiny terrorist.”

I close my eyes. “Ryan. I told you not to start. I already threw up in AP English.”

His gaze snaps up. “You threw up?”

Oops.

“I was going to mention that.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“Ally.”

“It was yogurt.”

“Did you eat?”

“Crackers.”

His expression darkens.

“And half a banana,” I add, which does not help.

“That’s not breakfast.”

“The baby disagreed with breakfast.”

He looks down at my stomach with real severity. “You are a strawberry with no legal authority.”

I laugh, and his thumb strokes slowly over the fabric of my shirt. “Your mother eats,” he tells it.

“Please don’t bully the fetus.”

“I’m establishing expectations.”

“At ten weeks.”

“Best time.”

“You’re insane.”

“Runs in the family.”

I stare at him. He looks up. “What?”

“Your family isn’t insane.”

“My mother once spent three months pretending to befriend a state senator’s wife because she was certain the woman was laundering campaign donations through a charity gala.”

I blink. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”