My stomach clenches again.
I don’t like Holt.
To be more precise, I don’t like the way my body responds when I’m around him.
The man had the absolute audacity to be leaning against a Jeep in four-hundred-thousand-degree heat in a backward baseball cap, a faded gray Crow’s Nest Bakery T-shirt, and jeans.
Jeans.
In this heat.
Without a visible drop of sweat on him.
And for a split second when I spotted him, I thought,wouldn’t it be nice to always have a friend with a great ass who can tackle people who are mean to me and who says “Don’t worry about it” when I apologize for the mess all over his clothes?
Or something like that.
Maybe something a little dirtier.
Especially when he started talking about his kitchen.
Not that I’m in any position to explore anything with him.
He’s leaving the country.
I’m pregnant.
He probably has a girlfriend. Possibly one here and one there.
I’m pregnant.
He very likely doesn’t want to be the person who would’ve come barreling into the bathroom and rescued me from that awkward moment with Abby Nora.
I’m pregnant.
Brydie told me he plays lacrosse professionally, which explains the muscles. I know even less about lacrosse than I do about rugby. Dad bought his rugby team after I moved overseas, and I haven’t been home during the season, ever. Mom calls it his little retirement hobby, even though he’s not retired yet.
Not by a long shot.
Hencehobby.
And speaking of Mom—I only get so long in this bathroom before she comes looking for me to make sure I didn’t throw up and pass out, so I need to quit breathing and overthinking everything and finish up in here.
I switch back to the message with Miranda and make myself be normal.
Me:How did you get out?Of living with them, I mean.
Bubbles pop up telling me she’s texting me back nearly immediately, and then?—
Miranda:I wasn’t carrying their grandbaby.
Me:I fucked up, didn’t I?
Miranda:You fucked something.
I snort in the bathroom, hear it echo, and freeze.
No sounds.
