No clue about what?I think with my face smooshed into his very firm, very confused chest.
Oh, God, does he think I have cancer?I mean, morning sickness has been no joke lately, and this baby clearly wants me to survive on toast and boiled peas, but do I really look that bad?
Micah’s enormous hand covers the side of my head, squishing my mouth so that even if I tried to speak, I’d sound like I just had a tooth pulled. Meanwhile, he continues to whisper heartfelt condolences, stroking my back like I’m about to ascend.
It’s finally then that I decide enough is enough. Pregnant or not, I’m plenty capable of getting the man’s hands off me.
I’m just about to knee him in the balls and threaten him with additional bodily harm when a throat clears behind us.
Loud and annoyed.
The kind of throat-clear that sounds like it could have been made by an angry bear.
We both freeze. More accurately, my eyes get stuck looking like large saucers, my mouth probably still looks like a fish trying to speak, and my brain goes through a mental Rolodex, trying to place that deep tenor.
And when Micah and I finally turn, that Rolodex clicks into place: Patton.
Except this time, he’s not sporting his usual Hollywood billboard smile.
No, this Patton’s jaw is clenched tighter than a pickle jar, his eyes like murderous storm clouds locked on Micah’s hands, and his biceps are bulging around his crossed arms like he’s restraining his inner gladiator.
And then, as if things could get any worse, they do.
Beaver, my cat who’s hellbent on converting Patton from a dog person to a cat person, launches out of the drawer where I keep my purse.
I’m just wondering how he got in there when he stalks forward, shooting Micah a judgmental glare before slinking past us to drop something at Patton’s feet.
My positive pregnancy test.
Oh.
Shit.
Cue the doves scattering. Cue the dramatic violins. Cue me awkward-laughing while hoping the floorboards open up and swallow me whole.
twenty-one
patton
The Eyes of a Serial Killer
At first, the tips of my ears feel hot, the collar of my Henley feels like a noose, and my knuckles feel like they’ll break with how hard I’m fisting my hands.
That fuckerMichaelhas his hands on my wife.
My. Fucking. Wife.
I swear on everything holy as I stalk toward them that I will tear the limbs off the asshole who fucking dares to touch what’s mine.
Mine.
My breaths feel ragged as I come to a stop in front of them, taking in the scene. Nisha’s face is flush against his chest, his hand stroking down her back while the other keeps her head secured. He’s murmuring shit—sweet nothings, probably—his lips moving against her hair. As if he has any fucking right to hold her and talk to her that way.
Instinct compels me to grab the fucker by the throat and haul him against the nearest wall, punching his perfect nose out of shape.
Instead, I clear my throat. Loudly. With a warning that hangs in the air.
They both freeze like deer in headlights before turning to face me. The look on Nisha’s face, a progression from shock to panic to guilt, barrels into my chest.
