He didn’t ask too many questions when I called and told him I needed a hiatus. He didn’t push when I said I was done with audio for now. He just offered me shifts at his sister’s coffee shop, told me I could work the register if I didn’t want to talk much, and every few weeks asked if I was writing anything new.
Which is how I ended up here. Eight months pregnant, in an apron, smelling like espresso all day and spending my nights writing a very filthy novel I may never show anyone.
Life is weird.
“Sorry,” I say, shifting my weight a little because my back is killing me today. “Just tired.”
Jake glances at my stomach. “You are carrying around a whole human. I think that’s allowed.”
I smile despite myself and rest a hand over the curve of my belly. He moves when I do, a slow solid stretch that still startles me sometimes.
Seven months.
Heavily pregnant now. No hiding it, no pretending it’s just the angle of a sweater. My body entered the room before I did weeks ago, and I’ve given up trying to disappear behind oversized clothes and strategic tote bags.
Jake follows my glance toward the window. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then, because he’s earned more honesty than that, “I just keep getting the feeling someone’s there.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Anyone specific?”
No. That’s the problem.
Everyone and no one.
I shrug. “Probably nothing.”
He studies me for a second, then nods like he doesn’t believe me but is kind enough not to say so. “Sit down for five minutes before your feet file a formal complaint.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every single time, and every single time you look like you’re about to throw a croissant at me.”
“That happened once.”
“It was very hostile.”
“It was stale.”
That gets the laugh I wanted, and the air between us lightens again.
I lower myself into the chair across from him with all the dignity of a woman whose center of gravity has completely betrayed her. He watches with open amusement.
“So,” he says, “how’s the book?”
I huff out a breath. “Actually good.”
“Actually?”
“Annoyingly good. Which is frustrating because that means I might have to finish it.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
“I haven’t thanked you.”
“You gave me chapter six. That was thanks.”
Heat crawls into my face. “You were not supposed to read it that fast.”
