Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,79

nearly ended on a wayward mustard seed. The vile little spice had lodged itself into my soft pallet, poisoned me with burning brine, and nearly delivered Genie twelve weeks early when I sneezed it out.

Fortunately, I hadn’t gone into labor, but sneezing while pregnant was a roulette wheel of bodily functions. My spin had landed on pee yourself in front of the man you love.

Jude had thought that mess was hilarious.

If nothing else, pregnancy was fixing my self-esteem. Shame had a rock bottom, and it was thirty-two weeks pregnant. I was still a mess, but at least my big tummy made everything I did seem ridiculously adorable.

Sweet pickle brine puddled on the floor. I called for Phillip’s help. No dice. He yelped and ran away.

“No cookies for you later.” I threatened the dog. “I’ll remember this when you want to go to the dog park.”

What was worse? The revolting, vinegar sweet stench…or trying to bend down to clean it up?

Bending down. Definitely.

Maybe no one would notice if I just left it?

I gathered the paper towels, dish cloths, and broom and dust pan first. I considered packing a snack and pillow too. Once I got down there, I wasn’t getting up easily to forget any forgotten item.

Screw it.

I threw the entire paper towel roll at the floor. The roll plumped with brine, and I kicked the towels into the brine. It’d soak up eventually. In the meantime, I swept up the bits of glass.

But picking up the dust pan required bending over.

Tricky, tricky.

I managed a three-step system to the floor. First, determination. Second, a firm grip on the cabinet. Third, settling in for the rest of the third trimester as my tummy trapped me on the tile.

I dropped the glass shards into the garbage and sustained only a minor nick to my thumb, which I promptly soaked in brine. Another reason to hate the damned pickles.

I sopped up the floor. The chlorox wipes were under the sink. No way was I actually standing up, walking over, and bending down to reach them.

So…it had come to this.

Shimming on my butt across the kitchen floor.

With a doctorate in neurology, I impersonated a brain-dead seal and bounced my ass to the cabinet under the skin. I kicked it open with my foot—practically a flipper with all the blubber setting at my feet—grabbed the chlorox wipes, and only then realized my butt had mopped up most of the brine while I scooted across the tiles.

At least I was efficient.

Once upon a time, I never really considered how best to get off the floor. I just…did it. Stood up. Arrogantly defied gravity in a feat of skill with a more balanced center of mass.

“Phillip?” I called to the dog.

He knew better. Besides, a dalmation wasn’t getting me to my feet. I needed a mountain rescue St. Bernard to haul myself up.

I heaved, felt a lot like a super pregnant ho, and used to counter to rise to my feet.

Ew. The brine soaked through my clothes. That did nothing for my appetite…except that I was starving. At some point the contradictions would yield to contractions. That thought put the fear of birth back in me. I patted my tummy.

“Sit there for couple more weeks,” I said. “I promise we’ll buy better pickles if you wait.”

I returned to my leftovers. I opened the container of spaghetti, grabbed a fork, and promptly flung it to the floor.

Not this bullshit again. Nope. The fork would stay there. I decreed the entire floor a cutlery graveyard.

…Except we had no other forks, and the dishwasher—though loaded with a tab and locked for the cycle—wasn’t run. Par for the course with Jude. Toothpaste never had a cap. Water boiled without noodles in the pot. The oven ran with nothing inside it. Doors stayed opened. Keys were misplaced.

It was getting worse.

He didn’t even notice.

I washed a fork and shoveled some of the pasta onto my plate. The noodles tangled, and an accidental bump of the container jostled the entire mass out. I batted it away—too late.

The rat’s nest of spaghetti tumbled out of the Tupperware and poured onto my shirt on the way to the cutting board. I shrieked.

The marinara drenched spaghetti stained my last white blouse.

“No, no, no!”

I had to soak it. Dunk it in bleach. Do something. I owned no other shirt that didn’t look ironic stretched over a pregnant belly. I ripped the shirt over my head, but it snagged in my hair and snapped my bra.

I tugged.

Stuck.

Jiggled.

Stuck.

So, this was how