Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,78

crib was pure crafted luxury, imported from a European country and carved from some special wood somehow worth the exorbitant price tag. I had the crib made with ridiculously expensive hypoallergenic sheets and blankets. All pink. All perfect.

A teddy bear wore my Rivets’ jersey. He waited for his new best friend in the corner of the crib. Still had eleven weeks to go, but it’d be worth the wait for little Genie.

Rory brushed her fingers along the wood. She sniffled once and turned to me, shaking her head.

“Thank you, Jude.”

“I’m just…” I didn’t know how to say it. “I want to help. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

She fell into my arms, struggling to get close enough with her rounding tummy.

It wasn’t the first time the baby would come between us, and I couldn’t have been happier for it. I wanted to help Genie too. I dreamt about being there for her, holding her, letting my life change for her.

My hand fell to Rory’s tummy, rubbing the lamp.

I was owed a second wish. I could think of nothing I needed more.

I wished the baby were mine.

17

Rory

The only thing worse than being one million weeks pregnant was being one million weeks pregnant and uncomfortable.

At first, I thought it was the baby kicking. Then I assumed it was hunger pains.

Wrongo.

Fortunately, it was just me and Phillip in the room, but he didn’t have to look so damn hurt. Wasn’t like I blamed it on him.

This time.

Pregnancy really was magical.

What sucked the most was that everything hugged too tight. Even after I changed into larger panties and then switched out jeans for a skirt and then the skirt for yoga pants, I still felt weird. Like my skin didn’t fit anymore. No one had warned me about that. My belly button popped out, but it wasn’t a pressure release valve like I thought.

Genie was still cooking, and she was getting a little too comfortable. Only eight weeks until eviction, but who was counting?

I stood, and the baby reconfigured herself, doing a somersault to nestle somewhere on my bladder.

Aha! I was hungry. Or horny. Not happy, but at least I wasn’t in weepy tears after hearing one of the Rivets’ fight songs on the radio again.

Pride made me cry. Fatigue made me cry. Hunger made me cry. Food made me...less irritable.

But I hated to rustle around in the kitchen, and I hated even more why.

Jude’s headache.

He rarely admitted that he suffered from headaches, but he told me about this one. It must have hurt. But headaches weren’t unreasonable, and it wasn’t necessarily something to worry about. Sometimes the brain just had a bad day. Headaches and fatigue and dizziness were common with post-concussion syndrome.

I couldn’t cure it, but I could treat it. I had him leave the afternoon workout, come home, and rest in a dark room with no stimulation. No TV, no radio, no computers, no noise.

He followed those orders, but he’d refuse my next.

He had to sit out of Sunday’s game.

That would be tough. The team was so damn superstitious that any change to their lineup could destroy their momentum. And if it was me pulling one of the starters? Hell, they still blamed me for their only two losses—the two games when I’d refused to let everyone pat my tummy for luck. I acquiesced after the sweet baby shower, and the bump brought us once more to victory.

Lucky baby or lucky momma?

It had to be Genie. Nothing about the pregnancy had felt very lucky, especially as my feet swelled, my tummy turned me into a weeble, and the simplest of tasks felt like a monstrous feat of strength and dexterity.

Spaghetti was one of those feats.

Fortunately, it was already made. Unfortunately, the leftovers crashed in the fridge behind six bottles of water, ironically arranged like bowling pins.

I reached for the Tupperware, twisted, and jostled the water. Four bottles fell out of the fridge instantly, thudding first against the condiment shelf, then the crisper drawer, and finally pin-balling to the floor with a loud thunk.

I picked up the spare when I unsuccessfully attempted to catch the falling jar of pickles.

Not just a crash.

Splatter. Shatter. And disgust.

Why did it have to be Jude’s bread and butter pickles?

Enough abominations existed in the world without bringing bread and butter pickles into my home. I was trying to create life, and he tortured me with sweet pickles?

Last week, the tangy disgrace had looked innocent enough, but one weaponized condiment on my sandwich later, my life was