Page 47
She pulls back and her eyes immediately drop to my belly, which—yeah, okay—has definitely popped.
“Oh my God. Look at you!” Her eyes go wide, then misty. “It’s like… an actual bump. A real one. Since when do you look like a whole mom?”
“I know.” I groan dramatically. “I woke up yesterday and couldn’t see my toes. Send help.”
Reese just grins, brushing her fingers lightly over the curve of my belly. “You’re glowing. Like full-on, dewy-skinned, goddess-of-fertility glowing.”
I scoff. “It’s sweat. And hormones. And the fact that Kingston made pancakes this morning.”
Reese’s brows fly up. “He cooked? Okay, this man really is the fantasy.”
I don’t tell her what happened after the pancakes. Or the night before. But I’m pretty sure my cheeks give me away.
She grins like a cat who already knows the ending to the story. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
The showroom downtown smells like fresh linen and lavender, and the samples for Simply Reese’s pregnancy line are spread out across the glass table like a pastel dream. Soft blush tones, ivory, dove gray, even a moody emerald that Reese calls “forest fire.”
She holds up a cropped hoodie and does a happy dance. “They nailed it. I mean… feel this.”
I do, and okay, it’s like touching a cloud that spent a week at a spa. “It’s perfect.”
“We’re sending it to production tomorrow,” she announces. “I want these on shelves before the next trimester takes me out.”
“You’re not even pregnant,” I remind her.
“Details,” she sings, then links her arm through mine. “Now come on, I’m starving, and I flew all this way just to see you. Let’s get lunch.”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders melting like butter. “You’re only in town for the night, huh?”
“Which means we have exactly one meal to talk about everything. Starting with Kingston. And ending with names for those babies.”
We’re seated by the window at a cozy little bistro Kingston recommended—something lowkey with good lighting and even better pasta. The kind of place that serves sparkling lemonade in those oversized vintage goblets and breadsticks that should be illegal they’re so good.
Reese hasn’t stopped staring at me since we sat down.
“You look different,” she says, one perfectly manicured brow lifted. “And don’t give me that innocent wide-eyed ‘who me?’ look, Mya. I know you.”
I smirk, swirling my straw in the glass. “Do you?”
“Don’t play coy. I know that look. You’re happy. Stupid happy.”
I cough on air. “That’s not a thing.”
“Oh, it is. It’s very much a thing.” She leans in, narrowing her eyes. “And I want the tea. Immediately.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m nosy. Now spill.”
My laugh is too loud, drawing the attention of the couple beside us. “Okay, okay! Things are… good. Really good.”
Reese tilts her head like she’s dissecting me under a microscope. “So good you’re sleeping with the hot quarterback who makes pancakes?”
I drop my head onto my arms. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Thank you. That’s not a no, by the way.”
I lift my head, grinning despite myself. “Fine. We crossed that line. Happy now?”
