“She okay?”he asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.“She’s good.”
Callaway’s palm drifts lower, but he doesn’t touch yet.He pauses right at the edge of my belly, eyes lifting to mine like even now—especially now—he won’t take anything from me without permission.My hormones, traitors that they are, decide this is the sweetest thing on earth and I almost lose it.
I nod.
Relief hits his face so hard it steals the air from his smile.He settles his hand there, warm and broad, covering us like he can protect her with skin and willpower alone.His expression goes soft in a way that makes me feel exposed, adored, and almost unbearably safe all at once—as if I’m the only thing he can see, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
“She’s gonna be so loved.”
“Or so annoyed,” I say, because if I let myself feel the full scope of that sentence, I might dissolve.“She’s going to come out rolling her eyes because her dads, her uncles, her grandfather—everyone—will be watching her breathe.”
Callaway’s grin turns feral.“Good.She should know she’s protected.”
Monty’s voice is low, almost rough.“No one touches what’s ours.”
My pulse trips.
“Okay, possessive much?”
Callaway doesn’t even blink.“Yes.”
Monty’s mouth curves, faint and lethal.“You like it.”
I open my mouth, then shut it, because my body answers before my pride can.Heat pools low, immediate, traitorous.My skin remembers them.Remembers hands and mouths and the way they look at me like I’m both comfort and obsession.
I clear my throat, because I’m not about to let them win this round.“Anyway.Since we’re all pretending we’re emotionally stable adults ...have we decided where we’re traveling this summer?”
Callaway’s face shifts into business mode so fast it’s almost funny.Almost.He looks at Monty, and Monty gives a small nod.
“We decided on a few safe places,” Callaway says.“None of those where you need a thousand shots to not die.We have to think about our little girl.”
“I love how you say that like you’re the one carrying her.”
His arm tightens again.“I would if I could.”
“We can do the rest of the places later,” he says.“When you’re not pregnant.”
I snort.“You say that like you plan to knock me up again.”
Callaway’s gaze flashes to Monty, and the look he gives him is so blatant it should come with a warning label.Jealous and amused and hungry all at once.
Monty shrugs, completely unbothered.“We have to discuss it in therapy,” he says, as if that makes it reasonable.Then his hand slides to my stomach—gentle, but with that demanding certainty behind it.“But I do want a second one ...soon.”
My breath catches anyway.Not because he touched my belly—because he touched it like a promise.
And my body, rude traitor that it is, responds.A pulse of wanting rolls through me, lightning-fast.The press of Monty’s body against my legs shifts, and I feel the proof of him—his need, his restraint, his control cracking at the edges.
Callaway notices, because of course he does.His eyes darken.His hand spreads across my stomach like he’s claiming space, like he doesn’t like sharing my reactions even though he has to.
I hate how much I love that.
I force my voice back into brightness, because if I don’t, I’ll end up on my knees between them and we will absolutely not be finalizing any travel plans.“We are not having a second baby soon.I can barely keep a houseplant alive.I watered one cactus too much and it died.Acactus.That’s practically an immortal plant and I killed it.”
Callaway laughs, but it comes out rough, like it’s half relief, half desperation to hear something normal.“You’re doing fine.”
“You say that now.Wait until I’m crying because a commercial plays a sad piano chord.”
