Page 17 of Penn

“They’re following us?” I ask.

Penn doesn’t even bother looking in the mirror. “Yep. Until we get back home, we have shadows.”

“It feels unnecessary.”

“It is necessary until you tell me the name of the guy you think may have tried to kill you by setting your home on fire.”

And there it is again. No matter how hard he pushes, I won’t give him a name. I’d think he’s punishing me, but I know he’s just being protective. Someone tried to kill me, and I have to imagine it’s not easy for an alpha male like Penn to not take action.

Why he’s so intent on helping me, though, I don’t really understand. There was no attempt at intimacy last night. Not that I was in a place to make a coherent decision one way or another after everything, but there was nothing. There’s really no bigger boner-killer than having a woman carrying another man’s baby. It just doesn’t make much sense.

We find a parking spot close to the entrance, and a heaviness fills my chest. I have to start completely over. I don’t even have the basics to fall back on.

“Ready?” Penn asks, turning off the ignition.

“Not really,” I admit, but I step out of the pickup anyway. “But I can’t wear exactly one outfit forever.”

A faint smirk touches Penn’s lips, and he nods toward the mall. “Let’s go.”

We walk inside, and the blast of the air-conditioned air doesn’t help the sweat already beading on my back. My anxiety has kicked up at least three notches, and the loud noise of the mall doesn’t help. Squeaks of sneakers on the floors, overlapping conversations, and bright lights overwhelm me.

I’m a homeless pregnant bartender walking beside a massive biker with two more only God knows where right now. They’re near. I know that much.

Passing a maternity shop, I notice the mannequins wearing beautiful, flowy pastel dresses as their fake hands hold their fake baby bellies. My hand rests on my stomach before I realize it, and I wonder what I’ll look like once I start showing. It shouldn’t be too long now. Would this be a look I’d want to pull off?

Then the rest of it hits me. I need a crib. Stroller. Diapers. Baby clothes. Wipes. Blankets. Bottles. And a whole host of things I know I’m forgetting.

I don’t have the money to afford all of this. With Stephen, I knew we could make it happen. But now? I’m actually worse off than I was at seventeen.

What does that say about me now?

“Dixie?” Penn asks.

“I need to sit,” I choke out and stumble over to a bench in the middle of the large hallway as people pass by in blurs.

He crouches before me and places his large hands on my knees. “Breathe. Do you need me to get you something? Is it morning sickness?”

There’s such concern in his tone, and it almost makes me burst into tears. He’s so considerate, and I was nothing but sarcastic with him. And now look at him. He’s helping take care of me.

“I don’t have enough,” I manage to get out.

“Enough what?”

“Money. Stability. Plans. Anything,” I say.

He frowns. “You have time to get everything squared away.”

“I have six hundred dollars in my bank account, and money that St—I was given for the abortion I’m not getting. That’s it. I need more than sixteen hundred dollars’ worth of stuff. And that’s just the start of it all.”

“You’re not doing this alone, Dixie,” he says, his voice soft. “I told you last night that you’re staying with me. That way, you don’t have to worry about rent, security deposits, or electricity. I’ve got that covered.”

The pathetic chuckle comes without trying. “I’m a charity case.”

“Not at all.”

“You just told me that I can live off of you, Penn. That’s charity.”

Shaking his head, he sighs, and I think he might be trying to pick his words carefully. Considering I’m a wash of emotions and hormones right now, I can’t really blame him. “Accepting help doesn’t mean you’re a charity case. But you have to remember that you have one job right now, and that’s what you need to be focusing on.”