“It means no one has any claim to your baby but you. He or she issolelyyours.”
Her foot slips off the gas pedal as she works my comment through her head. “Mine?”
I incline my chin before nudging it at a space in an overcrowded lot.
Once she pulls into the parking spot I suggested, I tug up the parking brake, lean across her swollen stomach as if there are inches of room between it and the steering wheel, and then yank the keys out of the ignition.
“I appreciate your fearless sense of adventure, but I’m not ready to die just yet.” I drink in the massive steel-and-concrete monstrosity in front of us. “Though my plans could change after we wranglethatbad boy.”
My witty comment drags Macy out of the pit I threw her into. She rolls her eyes while flinging off her belt. As she slips out of the car, she grumbles, “You have twenty minutes.Max.If I had hours to waste, I wouldn’t waste them dawdling through aisles of overprocessed food for hours on end. I’d…”
When her voice trails off and an adorable crinkle pops between her brows, I endeavor to keep the line of communication open. “You’d…?”
The groove between her brows deepens as she shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do.”
Although I’d love to give her a heap of optimism, I’ve issued too many false promises lately—mostly to myself. Instead, I house her car keys in my pocket, wrap my arm around her tiny shoulders, and then guide her toward the most daunting shop in the state.
Baby Bunting.
Burning rubber wafts into my nose for the second time today when Macy tries to backpedal. She digs her shoes into the asphalt, her strength impressive considering her height and stature.
When my determined hold thwarts her wish to flee, she whispers, “You said we needed food and vitamins.Thiswas not mentioned.”
“I also said we needed stuff.” I lower my eyes to hers before shifting them to the warehouse-sized building sticking out like a sore thumb. “This isstuff.”
“I thought you meant toilet paper and a new toothbrush.” She shoots me a glance that announces she knows I used her toothbrush this morning when a quick search of my bag announced I had forgotten to pack mine. She’s a little anal about people using her toothbrush. I don’t know why. Some undercover agents exchange more than spit during covert operations. We came close a couple of times. “Thisis not on the agenda. Ever.”
I’m just as bewildered as she is, but I play it cool. “We have hours until Brandon will let us touch a single file.”
“Then I’ll switch my dinner date to a lunch rendezvous.”
I pretend she never interrupted me. “And once that happens, we won’t have a second to ourselves, so we may as well use the time well now.”
“That isn’t true. I’m close. I have several leads and a reliable source that…” Her words soften the longer I stare at her. She doesn’t want to admit this. Hell, I don’t want her to admit it, but we’re weeks away from unearthing reliable intel, and even then, it could lead us down another dead end.
This type of case is never solved in six weeks. I’m just wishing like fuck for a miracle.
Not wanting to face the truth, Macy pushes a wayward hair away from her face before saying, “Fine, but if you mention breast pads and sanitary napkins again, you will learn the hard way that my bump covers more than a gun. My right hook is just as dangerous.”
While waggling my brows, loving that the mud the bureau slung on her years ago, when they took the word of her attacker over her, hasn’t swiped her feisty personality, I open the door of the baby store and gesture for her to enter before me, the tremor of my hands unmissable.
6
MACY
The bell above the door of the Baby Bunting franchise chimes when Grayson and I enter. Baby powder and that new furniture smell everyone loves fill the air, and cribs, strollers, and a range of baby supplies line the walls.
With his eyes wide, Grayson matches my shaky steps stride for stride. His presence is oddly comforting, and it calms my racing pulse. In silence, excluding our multiple swallows, we make our way to the furniture section to examine the cribs. It seems a more urgent purchase than the rest.And perhaps a car seat?
There are so many options, and I’m a little overwhelmed by that. A baby only sleeps in their crib, don’t they? So why are there so many options?
The cuff of Grayson’s long-sleeved designer shirt brushes my wrist when he stands close enough to me that I can smell his cologne. “Do you see one you like?”
“Um…”
I’m about to point to a random crib when a salesclerk approaches us. She’s wearing a name tag that reads Jordan, andshe has a mild look of disinterest on her face… until she spots Grayson. Then her tongue hangs out of her mouth.
I can’t say I blame her. Grayson is gorgeous. I just wish jealousy didn’t always smack me anytime someone rewards him an ounce of attention.
