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Fourteen Weeks:
Baby is approximately the size of a peach.
I turn sideways in front of the full-length mirror attached to my closet door and smooth both hands over my stomach.
Well, shit.
That is definitely a baby bump. Sometime over the last two weeks, it popped out.
I’ve had a soft lower belly for my entire adult life, and I happen to like it. I’ve spent enough years photographing naked women to know stomachs are supposed to have some squish to them, along with thighs that spread when you sit down and boobs that occasionally need to be wrestled into a bra that looked a hell of a lot cuter on the model.
This is different.
The curve pushing out above the waistband of my underwear is firm and round, changing the shape of my body enough that I know the fitted black knit dress I picked for tonight is going to fit differently than it did the last time I wore it.
I knew this was coming. Obviously. There have been positive pregnancy tests, blood draws, doctor appointments, and enough pregnancy apps and weekly update emails that I could probably give a moderately convincing lecture on fetal development at this point. Sumner reads the articles too, although he pretends he doesn’t whenever I catch him knowing something suspiciously specific about cervical changes or what size fruit the baby currently resembles.
Which is a peach, in case you were wondering.
But this is the first time I’ve looked in the mirror and thought, Oh. There you are.
I turn a little farther, studying my reflection from the side. My bra leaves the tattoos along my ribs exposed, but my attention keeps pulling back to the small round swell beneath them.
“Look at you,” I murmur, rubbing my palm over it.
The bathroom door opens behind me, and Sumner steps into the bedroom, dragging a towel over his head. He showered while I finished getting ready, but I pout a little because he’s already halfway dressed.
My eyes drop to the strip of skin disappearing beneath the open waistband of his jeans.
He lowers the towel and sees where I’m looking, amusement flashing across his face. Then his attention drops to my stomach.
Everything about him changes.
The teasing disappears as he lets the towel fall onto the end of my bed and comes up behind me. I watch him in the mirror, my pulse picking up because he’s looking at my stomach like it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me feel a little incredible too.
His chest is warm and hard where it presses against my back, and his hands slide around me until both palms are spread over my bare stomach.
My breath catches.
It shouldn’t feel different when he touches me there. He’s put his hands on my stomach a thousand times already, usually while we’re tangled up in bed or while he’s trying to annoy me in the kitchen, but this time there’s something for him to hold. Something visible.
His baby.
Our baby.
His thumbs move over the small bump, and heat rolls low through me when his mouth parts slightly.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.
I look at him in the mirror. “That good, huh?”
His eyes lift to mine for half a second before dropping right back down. “You’re showing.”
“I noticed.”
“No.” His hands tighten slightly around me, like he can’t help himself. “I mean, you’re actually fucking showing.”
