“Hey, Ziggy,” Crew calls. “Oh, Miranda. You too. Hey.”
Silas Collins stops in the doorway and stares at Miranda. “Is that an ultrasound picture?”
Right.
He has a daughter.
Goldie talks about her a lot.
He’d recognize baby stuff.
Miranda waves the image at the growing group of rugby players gathering in my doorway. “It’s Ziggy’s baby.”
Crew’s eyes go wide. Porter’s mouth forms an O.
Silas stares for one more beat, then shrugs. “Cool.”
For all of the gossip I know Mom’s keeping from me about what people in her circles are saying as news of my pregnancy—and my puking on Eli Harrison—spreads, the office and the team have had no idea.
“Cool?” Tatum says. “Dude. We’re gonna beuncles, and all you can say iscool?”
Fletcher rubs the younger guy’s head. “He sucks. What did you expect?”
Only Holt is staying silent, his gaze flickering between me and the picture Miranda is carrying to the doorway to show off.
He knew I was going to the doctor.
I hadn’t had a chance to sit down and email him pictures yet.
I smile at him, trying to make it look normal and natural and no more intense than I’d smile at anyone else.
His gaze softens, and he almost smiles back.
My heart flips.
And then I squeak and cover it with a cough.
He’s not on his crutches.
He’s walking.
I can’t see his legs though. Is he still in the boot? Or is hegood-good?
Can I ask?
Would it be obvious I pay attention if I ask?
Or would it be rude not to when I’ve seen him in the office several times over the past couple weeks?
It’s polite to say something.
Right?
One corner of his mouth hitches up.
It does that anytime I start rambling.Overthinking again, Zig. You’re good.
“Look at the baby!” Miranda says, interrupting my internal panic as she shows off my picture to the guys on the team. “Doesn’t he—she—they look like a total beach bum? I’m in love. We’re calling themTater Tot. How cute is that?”
