“Fuck yes.”
“What if?—”
I don’t give a shit if that baby has Tyler’s DNA.
I press a soft kiss to her mouth to silence her. “She’s half of you, Angel. That’s all that matters to me.”
She quirks a brow and her lips tip up at one side. “She?”
“Or he. I wouldn’t mind having a little Griffin Junior.”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, babe?”
The endearment slips off her tongue, and a smug satisfaction rolls through me. I like the sound of that. A lot.
I stand and hold out my hands. “Come on. Let’s get you up off the floor.”
Her eyes widen, and she slowly shakes her head. “Can’t. Gravity makes me woozy.”
“Alright then.” I crouch down and scoop her into my arms, careful not to jostle her too much.
She kicks her feet and wiggles to get free. “Put me down.”
A quick slap on the ass shuts her up, and her face flushes the same shade of pink as her nipples.
Fuck. Now’s not the time to be thinking about her nipples.
“Stop fighting me,” I say gruffly. I stride into the living room and lay her across the couch. “Stay here.”
Her eyes follow me as I head into the kitchen. I grab the deepest bowl I can find and line it with a grocery bag, then I fill a glass of water from the fridge and head back the way I came. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of someone with morning sickness, but Mama always did this for us when we had a stomach bug. The basic principles should apply.
“Drink.” She takes the glass from my outstretched hand as I set the bowl down on the coffee table. “If you feel like you’re gonna be sick again, aim forthe bowl.”
I take a seat at the end of the large sectional and pull her feet onto my lap. “About the baby…”
“I have an ultrasound on Tuesday. That’s when we’ll know.”
“I’m going with you,” I tell her.
She yawns, stretching her arms above her head. The movement exposes a sliver of skin at her midriff, and a far-off memory resurfaces—my tongue trailing up her torso, chasing the harsh burn of the whiskey I’d poured there.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says.
“I’m not missing out on my baby’s first ultrasound.”
“It might not?—”
“Don’t.” My tone comes off harsher than I intended, but if I have to hear how the baby might not be mine one more goddamn time, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.
I press my thumbs into her arches, massaging her feet. She leans her head back against the cushion and closes her eyes.
“What time on Tuesday?” I ask.
She lets out a soft hum as my hands travel up to her calves. “Nine.”
“I’ll bring breakfast, and we can drive over together.”
I take it as a win when she doesn’t argue with me. Some part of her must want me there, and there’s not a single part ofmethat wants to miss it.
