Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,78

the entire day walking around my neighborhood, staring intermittently at the photo. I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with Josh.

And I’m pregnant.

Yesterday, when I got home I was sweaty and panicky and eventually threw up. Now when I look at the photo, I feel jubilant.

Well, jubilant through whatever weird and exhausting things are going on in my body right now. Dr. Sanders told me not to Google pregnancy—said it’s a minefield of panic—and instead she gave me a few pamphlets and recommendations for books to read. But I’m sure every single person she’s given that advice to has ignored it similarly. Alas, the internet tells me that it’s normal to be tired in the first trimester.

So when Josh knocks on my door, I’m prone on the couch, one leg thrown over the back. All I can manage to do is moan out a zombified “It’s open.”

Josh steps in, kicking off his shoes. He greets Winnie as she races for him. And just the sight of him in my apartment is such a relief I have to swallow down a sob.

He’s carrying flowers and wearing my favorite purple shirt. Pushing to sit up, I become aware that I wasn’t expecting Fancy Josh. I’m Dumpy Hazel right now, wearing an old Lewis & Clark T-shirt and paint-splattered cutoffs, with my hair stuffed in a bun under my CHEESY hat.

For some reason—Some reason, ha! Pregnancy—I feel my throat go tight again. “Well, you look nice.”

Frowning, Josh walks around the couch, sitting next to me, reaching under the hat’s brim to put his free hand on my forehead. “You feel okay?”

Now that is a million-dollar question. “Yeah.”

“You look . . .”

Pregnant? “Dumpy?”

He smiles. “I was going to say ‘flushed.’ ”

If I’m going to tell him I’m carrying his child, it should be easy to start with the smaller admissions. But my words come out hoarse: “It’s probably because I’m absurdly happy to see you.”

His eyes dip to my lips, and in turn, my gaze shifts down his face, over his nose, to his jaw, cheekbones, and then back to his eyes.

“I’m happy to see you, too.” Josh leans forward—he’s a little breathless—and presses a kiss to my cheek. I’ve brushed my teeth but God I hope I don’t still smell like barf. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

He has? A crack of lightning bolts through my chest.

“Um. Same.”

He laughs at this like I might be kidding, and stands, moving to the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers.

“In the oven,” I tell him . . . which could mean so, so many things right now.

Sound falls away—no doubt Josh has frozen and is silently taking this in—but then the creak of the oven door breaks through the quiet, and I hear a soft “Huh.”

“If I put them on top of the fridge,” I explain, “Vodka lands on the rims and knocks them over.”

He turns on the tap, and I hear water filling the vase. “Makes sense.”

But does it? Does it make sense that I put my vases in the oven when it’s not in use, so that my parrot doesn’t knock them over? These are the things other people might question—but not Josh.

He has never, not once, asked me to be someone I’m not.

When he returns, his hands are free, and he resumes his spot next to me on the couch, pulling my legs into his lap. For the first time in our friendship, as his hands come over my legs, I am intensely conscious of how not-sexy I appear.

I blurt, “I didn’t shave today.”

His hand runs up my shin anyway. “I don’t care.”

“I showered, but then . . .” I point to my head, and the hat perched there. “Sort of let it go to seed.”

“I don’t care what you look like.” His hands drift back down, and strong thumbs dig into the arch of my foot. My eyes cross a little in pleasure.

This is new. This kind of touching, and the tentative awkward smiles. I know why I’m being a bumbling idiot—I’m pregnant and in love—but why is he?

“What’s up with you?” I ask quietly. “Why are you massaging me and bringing me flowers and looking particularly adorable?”

Clearing his throat, he stares down at where his hands work on my feet. “Yeah, about that.” He looks up at me. “Are you going out with Tyler again?”

I bark out a laugh. “Negatory.”

He nods, and nods, and keeps nodding as his gaze slowly moves back to my legs, up to my hips,