Page 416 of The Romance Adventure

“Are you pregnant?” Lally asks.

Even though I took a risk coming here and am enjoying myself so far, I’m not yet ready to open up.

Clearing my throat, I say, “If, say, someone here was pregnant⁠—”

Isla raises her hand. “If you didn’t notice, I’m pregnant.”

Harley points to her belly. “Me too.”

Luke claps his pudgy little hand against my knee and says, “Ba ba ba.”

“He could be singing a children’s nursery rhyme,” Robyn offers, humming a song about sheep.

I appreciate the support, but I can’t lie. Nor will I come forward with the truth just yet.

“So, for pregnant women, what kinds of things, um, should one be aware of?” If I were in an interrogation room or simply interviewing a potential asset to turn, I’d fail. I’d have to hang up my “badge” and find a new job. Maybe get a hobby.

But that doesn’t deter my new friends. They don’t ask again whether I’m pregnant, likely because they sense I’m not spilling the beans yet, not until CJ gets back.

But I learn all kinds of useful things about physical changes, get referrals for various services, and where to find cute clothes.

Hours pass, and even though I don’t forget about how my husband is out to sea and the outcome of the McGregors going after Von Dräger, I’m not as nervous. Bonus, the ladies and I bond. I could probably call any of them any time to get together, go shopping, or do whatever it is normal women who aren’t international covert operatives do.

When I get back home, I don’t feel like packing or pacing. I’m staying put. Instead, I curl up on the couch, and before long, I doze off.

A scuffling sound and then a sliding noise wakes me from a dream about a pirate with silver teeth and a doughnut for a hand. Harley told me about the fake proposal from Ryan and a great doughnut shop on a nearby Key.

Rectangles of moonlight and shadows alternate through the living room as I listen carefully.

I may be hanging up my official dangerous lifestyle hat, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep my head on a swivel and remain alert. The sound comes again. I silently set the throw blanket aside and remain in a crouch by the couch.

The sounds repeat, and I identify the source is in the kitchen. Having accumulated a fair number of enemies, I worry that Von Dräger sent more of his goons after me—that whole threatening voicemail thing. I pad toward the opening of the kitchen, listening. I’m confident that no one is inside the house, but perhaps they’re trying to break in.

Movement comes from the window above the sink. I keep my breath steady so I don’t fly into a panic state. Reminding myself that this is my home and I have the high ground, I discreetly peer through the side of the window.

A mess of blond hair bobs up and down. Then a hand slaps the window before the trash bins topple over and clang.

I frown, realizing what’s happening.

Throwing open the window, I say, “CJ, what are you doing?”

He gets to his feet and brushes off his hands. “Lost my key.”

“You could’ve knocked.”

“I did.”

“I didn’t hear you. Must be the hormones,” I mumble.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, er, actually, I was worried you weren’t here.”

Not waiting for another second, I rush to the door and go outside. We race toward each other on the path and wrap our arms around each other. My husband is safe and sound. He clutches me tight as if relieved I’m still here.

I say, “I guess we both need new keys.”

“You’re here?”

Taking CJ’s hand, I lead us inside and turn on the soft under-cabinet kitchen lights.