“And you have it now.”
I wipe the tears off my face and nod. “Yeah.”
“And besides, not being mad at him doesn’t mean you can’t make him pay,” Tempest says with raised eyebrows, wiping her own tears.
“What?”
She winks. “Watch this.”
Letting go of me, she opens the door and peeks her head out, shouting, “Reed, Callie’s feet hurt.” My eyes bug out and I tug on her arm to stop her but she doesn’t. “Get in here, bro. She says her feet hurt because of what you did to her. You knocked her up, didn’t you? And now her ankles are swollen and my best friend can’t stand. All because of you, Reed.” Then, she turns to me. “Wait, is it feet or ankles? What happens to pregnant women?”
A shock of laughter bursts out of me. “Uh, everything.”
She laughs too and I decide that as soon as I get a chance, I’m introducing her to all my St. Mary’s girls. She’s going to get along great with them, especially Poe.
That’s how Reed finds us, giggling like lunatics. His frown says all about what he thinks of that. Pair of silly teenage girls. This is exactly how he used to look at us back then, when Tempest and I would hang out together.
When Tempest leaves us alone, he asks, looking down at my ballerina feet, “What the fuck is she talking about? What’s wrong with your feet?”
I study his face.
His bruises are long gone now. His arched cheekbones, his straight pretty nose, those eyelashes, that V-shaped jaw dotted with stubble that he scratches in irritation.
“You really hate your stubble, don’t you?” I ask instead.
He frowns. “What the hell is wrong with your feet, Fae?”
“I like it, your stubble,” I keep going without answering him. “Always have. And your longish hair.”
His eyes pierce mine. “You like my longish hair.”
“Yes.” I eye his long, dark strands that are brushing against the collar of his shirt. “Technically you need a haircut. But I don’t want you to get one.”
He studies me a beat. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“I won’t get one.”
“You won’t get a haircut.”
“That’s what I said.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Because I said so.”
He tightens his jaw for a second before he almost growls, “Are we done chit-chatting? What the fuck is wrong with your feet?”
“Why, are you going to massage them?”
“If I have to.”
I bite my lip, circling my eyes over his face, my heart thumping in my chest. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re pregnant.”
“With your baby,” I whisper.
Something washes over his beautiful but concerned features. Something heated and bright and possessive. And his eyes home in on my tiny bump that, to be honest, is not even visible under his hoodie, but still.
