This man. My man.
My heart did a stupid little flip, the kind that left my chest feeling too tight and too warm at the same time. Most guys might’ve gone for dinner or a movie or—gulp—bowling, but not Brooks. No, he had gone straight for haunted history because he knew me. And for all the jokes about how terrifying the house looked, for all the creep factor of Janice standing there like she’d just come off a wagon train, I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.
“You ready to bust some ghosts?” he asked.
I nodded, squeezing his hand back. “Are you? I know you’re not into spooky shit.”
“I’m into you,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “So, I think I’ll be okay.”
Fuck. It should’ve been illegal to be this turned on while staring down a bonneted woman.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, leaning across the console. “I’ll protect you.”
His grin cracked wide, boyish and cocky all at once. “I’m counting on it.”
Ninety minutes later, we stumbled out of the creaking house, both of us laughing so hard, my stomach ached. Between the ghost stories and “cold spots” and Janice’s commitment to staying in character, it had all been so absurd, and at the same time, oddly perfect.
“Okay,” I wheezed, clutching his arm for balance. “You cannot tell me that door slamming shut by itself wasn’t creepy as hell.”
Brooks shook his head, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “Just a draft, kitten. Old houses creak. That’s all it was.”
“Uh-huh,” I teased, narrowing my eyes. “Then why were you the one clutching my jacket like your life depended on it?”
“I was making sureyoudidn’t run screaming out the door.” His grin tugged wider, smug and playful. “You’re welcome.”
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me. We were ridiculous, teasing each other like teenagers after prom, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so light. His laugh lingered, low and rough, like it was meant for me alone. And that made my chest squeeze more than any ghost story or creaking floorboard ever could.
Janice gave us a knowing smile as she packed up her lantern and historical pamphlets, muttering something about young love and “spirits approving.”
“I have to give it you,” I said, my hand sliding easily into his, our fingers lacing like we’d been doing it for years. “Best first date ever.”
Brooks’s grin softened, losing some of its cocky edges, and for a moment we just stood there under the creaking oak, his thumb sweeping lazy circles over my knuckles. The night air felt charged, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Then it happened.
A tiny flutter low in my belly, like butterfly wings brushing from the inside out. I gasped and froze, my free hand flying instinctively to my stomach.
His eyes snapped to mine. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I think she just—” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Oh my god, Brooks.”
I grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against me, holding it there, waiting, holding my breath, until finally—
Another flutter, stronger this time.
Our baby girl.
Brooks went utterly still. His eyes widened, then shimmered with something so raw it knocked the breath out of me. “Holy shit,” he whispered reverently. “I felt her, Dani.”
Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, hot and uninvited. I laughed through them anyway, the sound shaky and full. “Guess she likes spooky ghost shit, too.”
Brooks bent down, pressing his forehead to mine, his palm still anchored over the life growing inside me.
“Best first date ever,” he murmured back.
Brooks
Ihad been dreading this day for weeks—more than any high-pressure, bases-loaded situation or postgame interview after a shutout. Six-year-olds had that kind of insurmountable power.
