Turner raises a brow, clearly amused. “You want to start with small talk?”
“Sure? I don’t know,” I mutter, flustered. “Do we start with small talk? Or with me groveling?”
This interests him and he seems to perk up. “You want to grovel? Tell me more.” He’s grinning, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fists as he studies me across the table.
“Would you please stop looking at me like that?”
It’s too much.
“All I’m saying is,” Turner says. “If you’re about to grovel, followed by a confession that you’ve been secretly in love with me since the moment you saw me, I’d prefer it be donebeforeGeorgia and Nova get back from the bathroom.”
I inhale. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”
He laughs. “No, I doubt it. They probably went out the back door.”
I splay my hands on the table, nibbling my bottom lip nervously. How much do I tell him? How much do I reveal about the past thirty-six hours?
How many pregnancy tests does a person have to take before they’re sure of the results?
“I want to share something with you because I want to begin this new chapter being completely honest.”
He nods.
“You know I haven’t been feeling well.”
Understatement; I’ve been barfing for days.
I glance down at my fidgeting hands, folding the napkin into a lame origami airplane that I immediately rip in half because I can’t sit still.
Deep breath.
“I took five pregnancy tests.”
His eyes widen at this announcement.
“Okay,” he says with bated breath. “And?”
“They were all negative,” I add quickly, before his thoughts spiral.
The tension in his shoulders relaxes, but he’s watching me closely, hands resting on the tabletop now.
“At first, I was relieved,” I admit, trying for casual but my voice wobbles. “Like, full-body sigh of relief. Because—newsflash—parenthood isn’t on my color-coded to-do list right now.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“But then…” I fiddle with the shredded napkin scraps in my lap. “Once the relief faded, I realized I was oddly disappointed about it.”
His brows lift in surprise.
“I’m not saying Iwantedit to be positive,” I hurry to clarify. “It’s just—there was this teensy, weensy part of me that thought…if I was preggo, it maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Since it would’ve beenus.”
Us.
The word hangs in the air, lingering. For one horrible moment Turner doesn’t smile; he has no smart-ass remark—not that he’seversarcastic, but he gives me nothing but an unreadable, steady gaze that has me squirming in my seat.
My stomach twists.
Oh shit.Did I make this weird by admitting that?
