“Where’s your stuff?”
I gestured to the luggage parked in the corner by the TV stand. “That’s all of it.”
He turned a disbelieving look on me, his gaze darting to my belly for the first time. Something in his eyes softened, sending warmth cascading all over my skin.
I mentally pinched myself to keep my defenses from melting.
As fast as he glanced at my stomach, his focus met mine again. “Parker.”
“Beckham.”
The stiff set of his shoulders relaxed a little, and I ignored the way it only happened after I said his name.
“You’re not staying here.”
I let out a disbelieving snort. “I don’t really have a choice.”
His jaw hardened as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, and I almost hated that I could see it so well with his five o’clock shadow. The mustache suited him. That I could admit.
“Yes, you do.”
I crossed my arms, using my belly as a little shelf. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
His shoulders lifted in another half-assed shrug as he moved to the nightstand to grab my chapstick and wallet.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
He crossed to my luggage, lifting it with one hand and tossing it onto the mattress. “Packing.”
“Beckham.”
He unzipped the luggage, not bothering to look my way. “Parker.”
My arms fell at his response, hands slapping against my legging-clad thighs. We were falling back into old habits too easily, and that should’ve scared me. “At least tell me what your plan is.”
He slid my wallet and chapstick beside my folded sweaters, and I tried to ignore the fact that he likely saw my underwear right next to them. “You’re staying with me.”
A loud, disbelieving laugh spilled from me without warning.
When he didn’t so much as glance at me as he zipped the luggage and pulled it off the bed, I knew he’d lost his mind.
“You’re serious.”
He held the bag at his side, facing me. “Dead.”
Nearly a minute of silence passed between us as I waited for him to tell me this was a joke. “Beckham, I’m not going to stay at your house.”
“First off, it’s a double-wide.”
I cocked my head.
“Second, you’re not staying here.”
I set a hand on my hip, partly to show my utter annoyance at the fact that he was doing this, but also because I was tired of standing.
“Scared of something?” he asked, adjusting his grip on the handle. His tone told me he’d had the exact same thoughts as me—that it almost felt too easy between us, despite all the years we’d been apart.
“For starters, I have this.” I waved a hand around my belly for emphasis.
