Page 16 of Falling for the Enemy

“You might change your mind when Junior gets here.” Jocelyn tipped her chin at Wren’s belly.

Wren shrugged. “We’ll see. You know how I feel about too much tech.”

“I’ll never understand hippies.”

Nick set the glass of wine on the table, and Jocelyn took a sip to soothe her nerves. When the pizza was delivered, ribbons of hot steam rose through the oregano-scented air. Starving, they each tore off slices and doctored up their plates with extra cheese and spices.

“Shit, that’s hot.” Jocelyn blew out a breath as the scalding sauce burned the roof of her mouth. “Hey, Nick, can we also get some breadsticks?”

“With cheese!” Wren yelled, fanning her own mouth.

“Comin’ right up!”

Steam billowed from their mouths as they waited impatiently for the pizza to cool.

Not wanting the conversation to turn back to her, Jocelyn made her own observations. “You look great, by the way. Glowing, or whatever people feel obligated to say to pregnant women when they can’t say the honest thing.”

“Which is?”

“That you look exhausted, but still in a radiant, fertility-goddess sort of way.”

Wren melted in the booth as Jocelyn nailed the truth the way only a best friend could. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life.”

“I bet. You’re building a human in there.”

Wren laughed. “You’ll see one day.”

Would she? Probably not.

A basket of breadsticks landed on their table, and Wren tore into it with the urgency of a woman released from a fiber-based hostage situation. She moaned indecently and shut her eyes. “Mmm, how are they so good?”

“At least you have yummy food cravings. It’s sort of fucked that The Universe punishes us for sex.”

Wren’s eyes opened. “What do you mean? I don’t feel punished.”

“Say that after you go through labor or the next time you’re puking up kale.”

The tension left Wren’s shoulders the way it always did when they stopped pretending and fell into that comfortable reality only best friends could share.

“Okay, fine. It’s not all foot rubs and fun cravings. Greyson’s been sweet-talking our chef at The Haven. Since he and Freya put me on a prenatal nutrition plan, I haven’t had anything good to eat.” Wren reached for another piece of bread with zero hesitation. “Everything’s organic, balanced, measured to the gram, and tastes like the forest floor after a rainstorm.”

“What a weird way to say I love you.”

“He does love me. He’d flip out if he knew I was eating this.”

“Mmm, how delightfully un-controlling and not at all Hawthorne of him.”

“Stop. You know how they all are. None of it’s done maliciously. He read a book that said certain foods were better for baby development. I appreciate him being so involved.”

“You’re right. Most men don’t even read, let alone think about their wives’ fiber intake.”

“Pooping is the oldest sign of good health, I’ll have you know.”

“Dear God.” She took a long gulp of wine, familiar warmth settling behind her ribs. “How has this become our lunch conversation?”

Wren’s gaze followed her glass, then drifted to the bags shoved in the corner of the booth. “So what are you really doing with all those bags?”

“I told you. Vision board.”