Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,71

trap I set for myself. This was why I always did the reminders as they popped up on my phone. I should have done the laundry when scheduled. Then I might have trashed the note.

Rory was right. Genie was a girl.

And I was a dead man.

I stuffed the note in my pocket and thumped my temple. Fucking figured. When I needed a linebacker to hit me, I was in the clear.

Shit.

I didn’t waste any more time. At home, Rory seemed to like concord grapes, bologna, and cream soda. Mostly at the same time. I grabbed her favorites and checked out.

And I got it wrong.

Worse than wrong.

Rory’s expression crumbled the minute I walked into the door. She sunk onto the couch, and Phillip took his rightful spot at her side, permitting her to cuddle against him when I inevitably screwed up.

I held up the bag. “I…got you some things.”

“I don’t think you got it right.”

“What did you want?”

She sighed. “Root beer popsicles.”

Damn it—that was right. I had three boxes of the variety pack still sitting in the freezer, but Rory only wanted the root beer flavors. Maybe I could convince her to try the cherry again, though the last one had bombed in her tummy and scared the hell out of us when she threw up red.

“And fried chicken?” Rory patted her swollen tummy, no longer a bump but a rather pronounced declaration to the world. “And my bubble bath soap?”

Then it clicked. “Because you wanted to eat the chicken and popsicle in the tub.”

She slumped against the couch. “I’m okay. I didn’t need it.”

“No. I’ll go back out.”

“Don’t be silly.” She sniffled. “I’m a grown woman. I can…” She pushed herself from the couch. It didn’t work. She planted her feet and groaned. “Go to the store myself.”

She didn’t make it far. Whatever energy boost she gained from the second trimester was wearing off. She sunk back into the sofa and shook her head.

“On second thought. I’ll be okay. I’m a neurologist. I have a PhD. I’m an accomplished and successful woman. It’s just a craving.”

“It’s okay.”

“I will not cry over root beer popsicles.”

Too late. My heart broke with hers.

“Doc, I’ll go to the store. I promise I’ll remember this time.”

That launched her off the sofa. She frowned, but she was no longer mourning her forgotten dessert. She stared at me, her fingers raised. She counted off.

“Root beer popsicles. Fried chicken. Bubble bath.”

Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman without fried chicken. She didn’t have to rub it in.

“I know. I’m a horrible person.”

“No, Jude. I gave you a list of three items. You couldn’t remember them.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like? Tell me. How’s your head? Does it hurt?”

“It does now.”

“Are you dizzy?”

“No.”

“Nauseous?”

I gritted my teeth. “No.”

“Having trouble concentrating?”

“For Christ’s sake, Doc.”

“You’re irritable.”

I threw my arms out. “You’re interrogating me because I forgot to bring you popsicles.”

“You should be able to remember three things.”

“Can’t you just call me an inconsiderate bastard and be done with it?”

For as exhausted and hungry as she had been, her eyes sharpened. No baby bump slowed her down now.

“But you aren’t inconsiderate,” she said. “Not now. Not ever. I know you have these symptoms. We need to take it seriously.”

“No. I need to pay closer attention when you want something.”

“You aren’t listening to me.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “I had a concussion, Rory. Had. I’m fine now.”

“Why don’t we go to my office tomorrow before practice.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not happening.”

“I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“You being sure means I’ll be inactive for the next game.”

Rory clenched her teeth. “Did I say I wanted to bench you? No. I’m concerned. It was a list of three items, Jude.”

“And I said I was sorry!”

“You aren’t listening—”

Rory silenced, grasping her tummy.

A cold fear laced through me. I raced forward as she felt her belly.

“What’s wrong?” I rested a hand on her bump. “Is she okay?”

The baby jumped and kicked, dancing around inside Rory.

“Nothing’s wrong. The baby heard us yelling and…woke up.” Her voice faded. She tilted her head. “What do you mean…is she okay?”

Our argument was about to get a lot worse.

“Did you open the envelope?”

Plead the Fifth. Don’t talk. Back away.

How many root beer popsicles did it take to fix this?

“Hear me out, Doc…” I said. “Before you turn into Grumpy…”

“Jude!”

“I’m sorry! It was in my pocket. I pulled it out and accidentally read it because—”

“You forgot what the paper was?”

“Until I read it.”

“I can’t believe