Oh, fuck me.
What if she’s pregnant?
What if she’s seeing someone and she’s pregnant too?
My gut cramps in a way it has no business cramping and that I don’t want to think about too much.
“Nothing human,” the tall guy says.
He sweeps his flashlight over where I’m hiding in a thick set of bushes. I close my eyes and hold my breath.
“Don’t wake the chickens,” the bridesmaid whispers.
“I think they’ll live if they miss a little beauty rest,” he mutters back.
“Aw, you’re adorable when you’re grumpy.”
He grunts.
The light dims behind my eyes, and I open them and peer through the bushes again.
The couple is moving on to the other side of the house.
It’s another hour before they leave.
Lights have flipped off and on inside the house. Two windows on the lower level are still glowing in back. I saw Emma pull the blinds, but not before I spotted a fridge and cabinets. A low light came on in one of the upstairs rooms, then shut off not long after.
Is that the boy’s bedroom?
Is that where her son—our son—holy hell, I have a son—is sleeping?
Sebastian Nathaniel Monroe, per her email with the newborn photo attached.
My middle name is Nathaniel too.
Did she know that?
Is that why she gave it to him?
Also, am I a creepy stalker who needs to go knock on the door and quit being a spying asshole?
Yes.
It’s time.
My feet are falling asleep. My balls are still tender. My stomach is in knots. My legs are tight and my ass is numb.
But I sneak out of the bushes and head for the house, debating if I should go to the front door or knock on the back door.
I make it three steps before the chickens erupt in a cacophony of squawking.
The light by the back door flips on almost immediately.
Motion-activated? Or—
No.
Emma activated.
