His voice turns concerned. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"Oh, no," I say. "No, no, no. Definitely not hurting."
His arms tighten.
"Are you sure? I know it was a little rough."
"A little?"
"Okay, a little more than a little," he says. "I just want to make sure that you and the baby are all right."
"We're fine," I say, a little more firmly.
His fingers slide through my hair. "Good," he murmurs.
I close my eyes and let out a contented sigh.
Chapter Thirty
Ben
I feel Paige relax in my arms, and just as sleep is about to take me, her stomach growls so loudly it startles us both.
We stare at each other for half a beat—the quiet after everything, the hum of the AC, the slow blink of the alarm clock—and then we both crack up, laughter spilling out into the quiet night. She buries her face in my shoulder with a muffled groan that sounds a lot like embarrassment.
“Traitor,” Paige mumbles at her own belly.
“I can fix traitors,” I say, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “I’m very handy with leftovers.”
She tips her head back to look at me, eyes still bright, cheeks warm. “You have leftovers?”
“I always have leftovers.” I push up on an elbow, hunting the floor with my other hand until I find my boxers. “There’s soup in the car from the kitchen. And I can make a sandwich with… optimism and whatever else I have.”
She snorts. “Optimism pairs well with pickles.”
“You’re in luck. I always have pickles.”
“Good. Because I’m ravenous.” She sits up, sheet falling away from her shoulders, and then catches my look and smiles softly. “What?”
“Nothing.” Everything. The way she looks right now could stop traffic.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed and scans the messy chair in the corner. “Can I—?”
“Top drawer,” I say, already grinning. “Steal whatever you want.”
She finds a soft navy T-shirt that’s been washed more times than I can count. When she pulls it over her head, something in my chest actually stutters. It’s big on her, falling to mid-thigh, swallowing her hands at the sleeves until she shakes them free.
She catches me staring and lifts an eyebrow. “What.”
“It’s not fair,” I say.
“What’s not?”
“That you look better in my shirt than I do.”
She glances down, tugs at the hem. “It’s very… architecturally sound,” she deadpans. “Classic lines, generous drape.”
“You trying out for a home reno show?”
