“Sorry. But my cousin…” He makes a face. “Ignore me. None of my business.”
Well, after what they just watched, they probably deserve the truth.
“Please don’t tell anyone. I’m nine weeks pregnant, but I don’t want the media to find out right before we go on tour.”
“You’re still going?” Sam asks, surprise etched into his handsome features.
I nod. “At least in the beginning. It’s all going to depend on how I feel, I guess. So far, I feel fine. Except for these panic attacks. This is the second one.”
“Stress is a bitch,” Mick says, nodding. “And you’ve got a lot on your plate. I’m guessing this wasn’t planned—and it’s okay if you don’t want to answer—so it probably caught you off-guard. And look, you can call me a misogynist all you want, but your looks are just as important as your voice. Guys want to jerk off fantasizing about you, and that’s not as sexy when you’re pregnant.”
“Dude.” Jonny gives him a look.
“No, it’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t already thought about.” I’ve thought the same thing.
“I’m just explaining some of the reasons she might be freaking out. On the inside. And Zaan’s busy with the playoffs, right?”
I nod.
“Well, you’ve got us,” Sam says. “Seriously. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” I’m suddenly a little overwhelmed with gratitude. “It’s hard to talk to the guys in my band about it because there’s so much money on the line. You know? If I bail, they have to bail, and the financial ramifications could be devastating. Not to mention the momentum we’d lose since the album just went platinum.”
“Have you talked to Sasha about it?” Jonny asks.
“Yeah. We’re having another meeting on Friday because she needed time to come up with a back-up plan.”
“Until then, you should just chill,” Sam says. “You know, go get a massage or facial or whatever you do to relax. And talk to Zaan.”
“I can’t,” I admit. “He needs to focus on hockey.”
“He needs to focus on you,” Jonny says firmly. “And from what I’ve seen, I don’t think that’s a problem. Dude loves you.”
I smile.
Because it’s true.
Despite everything going on, I know my husband loves me.
“He does,” I say. “And we’re going to talk. But tonight, we have to root for the team.”
“We’ll be watching.”
Mick scratches his head. “I’m originally from Seattle so…”
Jonny throws a napkin at him and Sam flips him the bird. “Dude.”
“What?” he asks. “Can I help where I was born and raised?”
Sam throws a pillow at him and Mick puts up his hands in an exaggerated protective motion. Jonny and Sam continue to give him shit, and I lean back, watching with a smile.
They’re doing it on purpose, finding a way to distract me.
And it’s working.
Chapter Eight
Zaan
