“What in thehell is that monstrosity?”
My head snaps up at Nitro’s disgust, my spoon lifted halfway to my mouth. I clutch the bowl tighter, worried he may take it from me for my own safety.
“The baby wants it,” I say.
His nose wrinkles. “The baby wants yogurt, pickles, ketchup and whatever the fuck that is on top?”
I don’t answer. There is no defense to give. It is gross, but this morning it was all I could think about eating this.
I’m nine weeks, comfortably into the first trimester, and this little bean growing inside me is making its presence known.
I’ve been walking around like a corpse from the moment I found out I’m pregnant. My boobs feel like they have rocks in them. Not to mention the fact I can’t keep my eyes open for longer than a few hours.
Casey finds it adorable.
I feel like I’m fighting for my life, especially at work. Getting through an eight-hour day is killing me, which means James is up my ass more than ever. Getting pregnant handed him the keys to my fucking job.
But our baby grows every day and the nausea, projectile vomiting, soreness, even the exhaustion, is all worth it for the little life we’re building.
“I’m not sure you should judge my eating habits, considering I’ve seen some of the things you’ve put in your mouth.” I smirk at him. “And I’m not talking about food.”
He laughs, of course he does. I don’t think these guys have any embarrassment about the women they fuck.
He leans against the counter behind him, taking in the mess I’ve made of the kitchen. He studies me, like he’s dissecting every thought in my brain. Then he says, “You doing okay, Mama?”
I freeze. I don’t mean to, but if Nitro has noticed I’m drowning, then Casey definitely knows.
“I’m good.” Lie. “I mean if you could distract my husband for an hour so I could breathe without him freaking out every time I breathe, I’d appreciate it.”
Casey has been…intensesince I told him I’m pregnant.
“Have you ever tried to tell Preacher to do anything?”
I snort. He’s not wrong. My husband can be stubborn. And that’s putting it mildly. “He wouldn’t let me put my socks on this morning. Bending over made him worry about the baby getting squashed. Our kid is the size of a strawberry.”
His eyes soften just a fraction when I say that. “He cares.”
“He hovers,” I correct. “Like an overbearing maniac.”
“Who’s an overbearing maniac?” His deep rumble has my head snapping toward him.
Casey is standing in the doorway, his cut tight over his shoulders, his shirt rolled up to the sleeves revealing thick muscular arms. I may feel like I’ve been wrung out, but I’m not dead, not yet. And my husband is fucking attractive.
I’m pretty sure I drool.
I give him a sweet smile. “The man I’m running off with if you don’t calm down.”
His eyes narrow as he steps up to me, his hands spanning my waist before resting over my stomach. There’s nothing there yet, not really. The slight hint of a little extra padding, nothing obvious, but Casey touches my belly like I’m nine months pregnant and he can feel the baby moving inside me.
“He’s already a dead man,” he says, his mouth taking mine.
“That’s my cue to get the fuck out,” Nitro mutters.
I don’t see him go, don’t care either, because Casey is devouring me like he’s stamping out any thought of other men with his mouth.
When he pulls back, he grabs my chin, tilting my head toward him and studying every inch of my face. “Are you still nauseous?”
“Only when I breathe.”
