Darian takes a long breath as if searching for inner peace. “I’m still in therapy because of it.”
We all chuckle when Patton speaks. “Dean, are you going to take this picture or what? The movie’s about to start.”
“Only if we all say the magic words.”
Groans ripple through the group as I settle further into Patton’s side with my legs up on the electric footrest. One of my hands rests over my thirty-week pregnant belly while the other entwines with his. Over the past few weeks, my belly has gone from cute little cantaloupe to full-blown watermelon-sized.
My feet look like swollen sausages, I pee like a leaky faucet, and I’ve developed a distaste for foods I used to enjoy, like Pad Thai, anything with garlic, and—wait for it—pineapples.
Freakingpineapples!
And while that shouldn’t be a big deal in the grand scheme of things, do you know what it’s like to suddenly hate the star ingredient of your favorite drink? Obviously, I’m not drinking anything alcoholic right now, but I’m not going to lie, I’m a little worried pineapple margaritas are permanently off the menu for me.
At least the morning sickness took a hike. And thank God I haven’t developed an aversion to French toast. More often than not, Patton makes it for me every morning, but on the weekends,he’ll swing by my favorite restaurant to pick up their almond-coconut French toast with apple and berry compote.
I look up at my gorgeous, talented, and infuriatingly perfect ex-husband, mesmerized by the way his eyes glimmer in the soft golden light from the sconces. He’s . . . beautiful. Not just in the obvious way, the way that makes strangers throw themselves at him like he’s handing out free food samples at Costco. I mean the beauty they can’t see, the beauty only I get to witness: his heart, his warmth, his soul.
Even after months together, I still have to pinch myself to make sure it’s real and that he’s here.
I reluctantly disconnect my gaze from ogling his jaw and that scruff I felt in between my thighs mere hours ago, to glance at our friends seated next to us.
Garrett and Bella sit next to Dean and Mala, while Darian sits with Rani on Garrett’s other side. Next to them, Hudson remains as stoic as ever, except when his gaze falls on Kavi, softening the same way Patton’s does whenever he looks at me.
Troy is brushing a kiss along Sarina’s knuckles while she just stares at him like he hung the moon, and Piper is whispering something in Dev’s ear that makes his nostrils flare. At first I think he’s angry, but on closer inspection, I’m pretty sure that’s not anger on his face. It’s . . . lust.Ew! If they try anything under that blanket before the lights dim, I’m going to file an official complaint with management here.
At first, Patton had planned to hold this private screening of his upcoming film,The Winning Pitch, at the baseball stadium where Troy helped him learn to pitch and where several of the game scenes were shot. But with the February breeze dropping temperatures so low—though the bright sun would make you think it’s summer—it didn’t make sense to ask everyone to be uncomfortable for two hours. So, he moved it here, to a privatetheater he rented out, complete with blankets and unlimited snacks and drinks from the concession stand.
“Magic words, people.” Dean waves his phone in the air like he’s at a concert. “Come on, don’t be dickholes.”
More groans, audible curses, and an inappropriate hand gesture later, and everyone smiles like they’re being held at gunpoint.
The lights dim, sparing us from Dean’s attempts for “one more shot” because apparently, he didn’t hear Dev and Hudson say, “Troy’s nipples are the sweetest”.
Jesus Christ. If I wasn’t almost eight months pregnant, I would have roundhouse kicked the annoyingness right out of him. Except, I also know what a formidable friend, father, and husband he is. How much life he brings into a room, even at his own expense through self-deprecation. He’s also played a huge role in making Patton feel part of the crew, despite only joining a few months ago. And for that, I’ll always spare him bodily harm, albeit begrudgingly.
But I won’t deny I get a sick sense of satisfaction from making him wither under my glares and side eyes.
What? I’m allowed hobbies other than just knitting.
A hush blankets over us as the theater screen brightens, and we all face forward as the opening credits start. My hand moves over my belly when our little starlight seems to jump at the sound of the loud musical score playing in the background.
Patton glances down, pulling me closer to him and whispering in my ear, “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
I shake my head. “I think the music woke her up.”
He starts to move. “Fuck. Let me tell them to turn it down.”
“No.” I grab his forearm before he can get up. “It’s okay. She’ll settle down.”
His brows bend. “Are you sure?”
Tilting my head so it’s lying on his shoulder, I place a kiss on his jaw. “Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”
His eyes find mine, an intensity as warm as the sun shining through them, before his lips meet mine.
“Hey lovebirds?” Dean whisper-hisses, leaning around the group, breaking our trance. “Who’s playing me in this movie?”
Patton schools the smile only I know is there. “You’ll see his name in the end credits. But he’s aptly labeled ‘overenthusiastic spectator number three’.”
