I don’t know how much longer I can keep hiding the truth.
“What is it?” I ask, accepting the package and ignoring the way my skin heats when his fingers brush mine.
“Something to stop your bitching and whining.” He walks off, and it’s natural to shove my middle finger up at his retreating form. “I felt that,” he says, and I flip him off another few times for good measure.
When he’s gone, I open the box, and my heart soars when I remove a Kindle Oasis e-reader. It’s linked to his account, and he’s set up a Kindle Unlimited subscription for me. A couple of pregnancy books are already loaded to the device, and my heart feels like it might beat a path out of my chest. I set it down and go after him, heading to his bedroom first.
I rap on the door, and it eases open. Sounds from the bathroom confirm he’s in the shower, and I’m backing out of his room when I spy the open sketchpad on the bed. I’m a nosy bitch, especially with Kai’s artistic talent, and I feel only a little twinge of guilt as I stride toward the bed. I sit down and snatch it up, turning it over onto his current drawing.
Pressure sits on my chest as I take in every exquisite detail of the sketch. A dog-eared photo is paperclipped to the top of the page, and Kai’s replica is almost a mirror image. He is just that good.
It’s Emma Anderson, Kai’s mother, and she’s cradling two babies in her arms. The one hooked in her left arm is tiny, and clearly a newborn, and the other baby is older, sitting upright on her lap, reaching his chubby fingers out toward his new brother.
Tears prick my eyes as I brush my fingers over the broad pencil strokes, quickly turning the page before my tears destroy the picture. This next drawing is of me. I’m asleep in the master bedroom, but Kai has used his imagination to include a baby in my arms. I’m curled into a ball with our sleeping child cradled against my body.
Sobs rib free of my soul, and I drop the pad, racing from his room back to my own.
The pain in my chest is so intense I’m struggling to breathe. I sink to my knees in my bedroom, wrapping my arms around myself as I rock back and forth with tears streaking my face. I crawl on my hands and knees to the bed, bury myself underneath the covers, and cry myself to sleep.
When I wake, it’s pitch-black in the room and outside. My throat is as dry as the Sahara Desert, and a heavy ache castrates my heart, reminding me of earlier.
“Abby.”
I scream at the unexpected sound of his voice, and he reaches out, taking my hand. “Calm down before you give yourself a coronary.”
“You know better than to creep me out like that!”
“And you know I like to sit here and watch you sleep.”
“Don’t bother being nice if you hate me again.”
“I don’t hate you, Abby. I never really did,” he admits, dragging his hand through his hair. “It’s what you represented, but I’m man enough to admit I was wrong.”
Nausea churns in my gut, and guilt threatens to consume me.
“I cooked pasta,” he says, not waiting for a reply.
Which is good.
Because I’ve no idea how to respond to him right now.
“And I set some aside for you because you missed dinner. Let me heat it up for you.”
“Why are you being nice to me again?”
He threads his fingers through my hair. “You’re not my enemy, babe, and I’m not yours. We have enough of them without turning on one another.” I nod, because he’s right. “I know what you’re doing, but it won’t work. It might piss me off temporarily, but I meant what I said. I’m going nowhere.” He presses a kiss to my hair, and I fight a new wave of tears.
I need to tell him.
But I don’t know how.
And once he knows what I’ve done, he’ll hate me for real this time.
I have fucked everything up.
My lower lip wobbles, and he notices. He cups the back of my head. “Shush. It’s okay, baby. Just let me take care of you.”
My eyes convey everything I’m feeling, and he bends down, kissing me softly. When he lifts his gaze, I see uncertainty there, which surprises me, until he bends down again, this time to plant a gentle kiss on my tummy over my shirt.
The tender gesture slays me on the inside, and I chew on the inside of my cheek and dig my nails into my sides to hold myself together. “I’ll be back,” he whispers, kissing me again, and I watch him exiting the room, hating what I’ve done, knowing there’s a chance he’ll never forgive me.
“Is there some imaginary monster chasing our asses, because why else are you running like your life depends on it?” Jackson queries, in a breathless tone of voice, as we race around the path in the wooded area at the side of the lake, the following morning.
“Everyone has monsters they’re trying to outrun,” I say, panting as I wipe sweat from my brow.
I love running in this kind of weather. As Jackson is fond of saying, it’s cold enough to freeze his balls. It’s difficult to warm up at first when my limbs threaten to crack and splinter, thanks to the bitter cold, but once we pick up our pace, my legs loosen, and I welcome the crisp bite of the air stinging my cheeks as we run.
“So true,” he says, in a much quieter voice, and I slow my pace to check on him.
“You want to walk the rest of the way back?” I ask.
“You saying I’m unfit?”
“You are unfit. You can thank your weed addiction for that.” I nudge him in the ribs. “Although, I give you ten out of ten for effort.”
“High praise indeed,” he says, stopping and bracing his hands on his bent knees. I swipe my water bottle from my backpack and guzzle it down. When I’m done, he’s regained control of his breathing, and we pick up a leisurely stroll.
“It’s Christmas in a couple weeks, right?” He nods. “So, are you guys going home or what?”
“We can’t go home. It isn’t safe.”
“Will your mom be pissed?”
“Yup. I’m dreading making the call.”
“Maybe you could ask James Kennedy to fly you under the radar.”
“We can’t risk it. Your bastard father will expect one of us to show our heads over the holiday season.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, beautiful.” He slings his arm around my shoulders, pressing a kiss to my temple. “We’ll do our own Christmas here, and I already have a few ideas how to make it special.”
“Let me guess.” I tip one finger off my chin. “Hash cakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the evening’s entertainment is watching Hot Cop Nails Naughty Mrs. Claus Under the Christmas Tree.”
He throws back his head, laughing. “This is why you’re one of my favorite people.”
I shoulder-check him, grinning. “You’re one of my favorite people too.”
He lifts his little finger. “Pinkie swear?”
I laugh, shaking my head as I wrap my pinkie around his. “Pinkie promise.”
“What is this?” Sawyer questions a couple hours later when I usher all three guys into the living room. I’ve pushed the couches to one side, so there’s room for the flip chart.