The corner of her lips tilt up. "The ultrasound. That’s why I’m up at this ungodly hour, too. I couldn’t sleep anymore."
"Yeah." My stomach tightens at the reminder. "Reed said we might be able to find out the sex."
"If you want to know." She rests a hand on her belly, something she's been doing more often lately. Watching her fingers cup her belly where our baby grows makes me forget how to breathe for a second—like I'm staring at something that belongs to me in ways I never knew I wanted. "We don't have to."
"You don't want to?"
She shrugs, but I've gotten better at reading her these past weeks. The little crease between her eyebrows means she's conflicted.
"I don't know. It's just..." She searches for words, which is unusual for someone who usually has too many of them and all of which she knows exactly how to use as a weapon. "Once we know, it makes this even more real, you know?"
I do know. That's exactly why I want to find out.
"Plus," she continues, "if I know it's a boy, my mom will start sending me feminist literature on raising sons to respect women." She rolls her eyes, but there's fondness there. "And if it's a girl, I'll get twice as much."
I can't help my laugh. "Your mom sounds intense."
"You have no idea." She smiles, a real one. The corners of her eyes crinkle and her guard drops completely. Her whole face softens in a way that makes her look younger, less like the ruthless businesswoman who's been terrorizing Portland's craft beer scene. This is smile number six in my mental collection since she moved in. "Think female Bernie Sanders with better glasses and an encyclopedic knowledge of Virginia Woolf."
"That’s kind of awesome."
"She'd eat you alive." Wren pushes off the counter and opens the fridge, bending to scan the contents. The hoodie slides up just enough to reveal the curve where her ass meets her thigh, and if she turned around right now, I don’t think I could tear my eyes away and she’d catch me staring. My fingers itch to trace that line, to feel if her skin is as soft as I remember from Vegas.
I clear my throat, ignoring my dick, which would love nothing more than to reintroduce itself to her. "There's yogurt on the second shelf. The kind you like with the granola packets."
She straightens, shooting me a look over her shoulder. "How do you know what kind I like?"
Because I've been paying attention to everything about you, from the way you curl up in the corner of the couch when you work late to how you talk to yourself when you think I'm not listening.
Because I notice which foods make you light up and which ones make you gag.
Because I can't seem to stop cataloging every detail about you.
"Lucky guess," I say instead.
She doesn't look convinced but grabs the yogurt anyway. "You heading to the brewery today?"
"After the appointment." I get up to refill my coffee. Decaf, too, in solidarity. "Lake can handle things for a few hours."
"You don't have to come with me," she says automatically, the same thing she says every time I offer to do anything for her. "I can drive myself."
"I know I don't have to." I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. It’s sweet and I love it, even though I'll never admit it. "I want to."
Her eyes meet mine, something flickering in their gray depths that makes my heart beat faster. For a second, I think she might actually let her guard down.
But then she blinks, and the moment's gone. "Fine. But I'm driving."
"Whatever you say, Pink."
Her eyes narrow at the nickname, but I catch the twitch of her lips. She doesn't hate it as much as she pretends to. And she’s stopped calling me out on using it.
"I'm going to shower," she announces, grabbing her coffee. "Be ready by ten thirty."
I watch her go, my eyes locked on the way her ass looks in those leggings until she disappears down the hallway. Even pregnant with my kid, or maybe because of it, I want her so bad my hands shake. It takes everything I have not to follow her. Once I hear the bathroom door close, I drop my head into my hands with a groan.
Living with her is fucking killing me.
I thought it would get easier with time. That the constant awareness of her would fade into indifference. Instead, it's gotten worse. Every day I notice something new—the little humming sound she makes when she reads, the way she tucks her feet under her on the couch, how she talks to her belly when she thinks I'm not around.
