The knowledge that Beckham was not only caring for me in this situation, but also my baby, had my heart growing to the size of the moon. Would any other man have stayed for the vomiting? Would they have thought to call a doctor to get advice on how to handle sickness during a pregnancy? And would someone as close with their family as Beckham forfeit a holiday for the smell of puke and a girl with an oncoming fever?
Probably not. Especially not if that baby wasn’t theirs.
But here Beckham was, at every turn, showing me thathe cared. Not only by letting me stay in his house for the time being, but with every little thing. Buying granola bars in the flavors he noticed me eating the most. Stocking the fridge with cans of Dr. Pepper, and bringing me an iced one from the gas station on his way home from the ranch.
All these little moments were turning into a load my heart couldn’t bear because my head kept telling me to keep this responsibility off his shoulders—to protect him from losing himself because of me.
But I think I was too late for all of that. Beckham had already inserted himself into this baby’s life, and I’d been the one to open the door to let him in.
I hadn’t realized it before, but he was already adjusting to me and my baby without the pressure ofhavingto be a parent. He was doing this willingly.
Would he want to forever, though?
I woke to an empty bed.
The door was cracked, letting in a sliver of dim light from somewhere in the house. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, checking for kicks. I’d read once that the side effects of vomiting could induce labor, and the last thing I wanted to do was cause unnecessary stress on my baby. I waited for what felt like minutes before I felt the shift of my boy. A massive sigh of relief passed my lips, and then I rolled over to flick on thebedside lamp.
After my eyes adjusted to the light, I found a sticky note stuck to the side of a water bottle.
Drink me before getting out of bed.
The fact Beckham had written me a note had a smile playing on my lips. Though still slightly queasy, I felt significantly better than when I fell asleep—I blinked at the clock—three hours ago.
Had I really been out that long?
I glanced out the window to find it was dark out now. Uncapping the bottle, I took a small sip, testing how my stomach reacted before swallowing another. When no further nausea came, I slipped out of bed, slid into my fuzzy slippers, and left the room.
My sluggish steps were a clear sign I was trying not to make any sudden movements to upset my stomach again. I hated vomiting, and I was beyond thankful when I’d gotten out of the first trimester with little more than sore breasts and light cramping. Now, I seemed to be paying for it.
I reached the end of the hall, following where the light was emanating from, and found Beckham with his back to me, standing in front of the stove.
The house smelled delicious, and my stomach growled in acknowledgment. Realization hit me then that I didn’t feel as warm as when I’d fallen asleep. Maybe it was only something I’d eaten, and not the stomach flu.
I took another small sip of water before making my way to oneof the stools.
Beckham turned then, eyes instantly scanning me. “How do you feel?”
I set the bottle on the counter. “Like I just puked my guts out.”
His jaw seemed stiff, his brows pulling in slightly.
“Better than earlier, at least,” I added, wanting to ease his worries a bit.
“That’s good.” He turned off the burner while simultaneously opening one of the upper cabinets and pulling out two bowls. “I made chicken noodle soup, if you’re up for it. Otherwise, I have bread and butter or crackers.”
I offered a small smile. “Soup sounds great. Thank you.”
I drank half the bottle while he dished up two bowls and spread butter on two slices of toast. It wasn’t garlic or cheesy or anything fancy. He was eating just as bland as I was. On Thanksgiving.
“I’m sorry this isn’t a turkey dinner,” I said as he set my portion in front of me.
He took the seat beside me. “This is even better.”
I twirled the spoon in the soup, guilt gnawing at me. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
His hand covered mine, ceasing my fiddling. Our eyes met. “I’m not lying, Parker. A night at home with you sounds a whole lot better than another dinner over there.” His thumb stroked my knuckles. “I’ve had a lifetime of those, but not nearly enough of you.”
This time, when my body warmed, I was certain it had nothing to do with a fever and everything to do with the man sitting beside me.
