I quirk a brow, even though his words sink heavy and warm into my chest for always putting me first. “And do you have a plan to kill this story so I don’t spend the next six months talking about Bobby? Because I’d rather not.”
Bronte closes the door with a soft click and steps deeper into the room. “I dunno, Daydream. You tell me.” I stare at him because I’ve got nothing to say. “My mother thinks you’re pregnant.”
My eyes bulge from my head becauseno.
No.
No.
No.
It’s not that I don’t want children. I mean, shit, I have a baby name list that’s how basic stupid I am because I had a plan.
A plan with Bobby.
A plan that was ruined, burned alive, and shattered.
I don’t have a strategy now. I meant what I said last night when I told Bronte that I loved him. I want to move to Boston to start a new life with him, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I had time to figure the rest out.
Had now being the past tense version ofhave.
Oh crap.
“You’re freaking out.”
My brows clash together because no shit. “Wouldn’tyou?”
“No,” he says flatly and oh-so-confidently.
Easy for him to say because he’s psychotic. And it’s always the hot ones that are slightly unhinged.
“We haven’t discussed babies and diapers yet,” I retort matter-of-factly. “And we haven’t been married a whole month. I just said I was moving here with you. A baby?—”
“Would be a Christmas miracle.”
Ha.
Leave it to him to use my love for the holidays to his damn advantage.
“I’m not pregnant,” I vouch with a long and unsteady exhale. “You’re notthatgood.”
“Aren’t I?” He cocks his head to the side, fully confident of himself on that feat. “I vaguely remember you begging me last night for harder and deeper, but that could’ve been my imagination. However, Idoremember you crawling on top of me while half-asleep while you fucked me, so I guess I’m doing something right.”
I scowl, but it’s weak at best. “This isn’t the time to becocky. You just threw thePword at me.”
“Blame my mother. She’s the one who mentioned it this morning and asked.” He pulls a long white boxfrom his coat pocket and puts it on display. “So I got you a test. When and if you’re ready.”
Nope.
I’m never going to be ready.
I don’t know if I’m going to be a good mom. I mean, God, I’m about to quit my job because I’m moving to Boston. I don’t even own acar.
“Bronte,” I mutter, rubbing at my forehead because, again, thiswasn’twhat I was expecting on the last day of the year. “I’m about to throw myself down a flight of stairs.”
He chuckles, deep and sexy in his chest, and extremely rare. “I’ll add potentially suicidal to your freaking out?—”
“I’mnotfreaking out,” I snap, before I realize that I’m already borderlining denial. That I am, clearly, and I’ve done crazier things in the last week and a half.
