Page 23 of Flint

“It does look like he owns a grocery store,” she agrees softly and presses a kiss to his soft head.

I shrug, not repentant at all. “I didn't know what they would like.”

“They're going to be bouncing off the walls in like two hours, and that'll be on you.”

I open my mouth to tell her I don't mind if the kids tag along with me today. Hell, I’d love to show them around the ranch and teach them about farm chores. I’ll make cowboys out of both of them if they want that.

But before I can tell her this, she gets a funny look on her face then she's running from the room. There's the distinct sound of doors opening and closing followed by her emptying her stomach.

“Mommy barfs,” Brock explains.

“She’s not even sick with a cold,” Branson says.

Brock tips his bowl up and drinks the last of his milk in it, setting it down on the table with a loud clatter. “Do cowboys barf? Do you know?”

“Have you ever tried to barf? Maybe he can’t,” Branson debates.

I can barely focus on their discussion because everything from yesterday is slotting into place. Alice's words about her condition, Ronnie sipping ginger ale, and barely eating lunch or dinner. My lungs are suddenly too tiny to hold any oxygen at all.

I lean over and turn off the stove, setting aside the half-cooked bacon. “Come on, kids. You get to watch cartoons today.”

I set them up on one of the pre-approved parental networks that a parenting magazine I read last week said was “age appropriate” for five-year-olds. The entire time, I’m running on autopilot. I can barely register anything over the whooshing sound of blood pounding in my ears.

As soon as they’re watching, I hurry to the bathroom. I don't knock on the door or announce myself. I just turn the handle and walk in.

Chapter 11

Ronnie

Flint opens the door, entering the bathroom just as I gag again. His hands go to my hair pulling it back, but I don’t have the energy or focus to even look at him. All I can do is try to get through this.

After a long minute, I finally lean back on my heels to wait for another round. Experience has taught me this usually lasts about twenty minutes for me. It started early in my pregnancy with the twins. Only it was worse with them.

Flint tugs gently at the collar of my shirt before pressing a cool washcloth to the back of my neck.

“It comes in waves,” I explain, my stomach muscles aching.

He doesn’t say anything. He sits on the side of the tub, and I wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I say, “You don’t have to stay here for this.”

He crosses his legs at the ankles. He looks at me with compassion shining in his gaze and says in a firm tone, “I'm not leaving.”

“You might regret it,” I warn right as my stomach roils again.

I dry heave a few more times and each time, he comes close enough to hold my hair back before finally placing it in a ponytail.

When it’s over and I’m confident my stomach is finally starting to settle, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. He’s sitting next to me on the cold tile, so close our shoulders bump with my every breath and our thighs are pressing against each other. “It’s yours in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

I open my eyes to focus on him. He’s calmer about this than I expected. “We can do a paternity test if you want. But just know that this doesn’t have to change anything in your life.”

“What do you mean? I'm a dad. This changes everything.” The grin he gives me makes my heart flutter.

I force myself to ignore the giddy feeling spreading through my body. He doesn’t understand what he signed up for just yet. “You can be in as involved as you want or don't want.”

He's already shaking his head before I’ve even finished speaking. “I want to be involved in it. All of it, everything. I don't just want to be here for the baby. I want to be here for you too.”

He takes my hand in his and just like every other time, it sends warmth through me. “Is there anything you need?”