My arm stole around his gut as I righted my head and sighed.
If I asked, he’d become an accountant (or something) for me. I knew it. All I had to do was ask.
But then he wouldn’t be Creed.
“I’m okay,” he said quietly, reading my thoughts.
“I know.”
“You’re okay,” he went on.
“I know.”
“We’re together, we’ll always be okay, Sylvie. Always. It’s when we’re not together that we’re not. You with me?”
“Yeah,” I said softly, giving his gut a squeeze.
I was with him. I was so with him.
Gun jumped up on the bed, looked at me, looked at Creed, understood who her chances were better with and said to Creed, “Meow.”
She was right.
Creed moved, sliding out from under me, muttering, “Be back. Getting Gun some treats.”
I looked at Gun and shook my head.
She didn’t spare me a glance.
She pranced out of the room behind a na**d Creed.
I rolled to my back on the bed and stared at the ceiling realizing my ass burned a little.
It was then, I smiled.
* * * * *
Seven days later…
“Your round, Pip,” Live declared, grinning drunkenly at me.
“It was my round last time,” I replied, staring soberly at him thinking it was seriously unfun being out with the guys and not drinking.
“I know. You’re leavin’, you’re not gonna be around. That means you gotta get ‘em in before you go,” Live returned.
“That makes no sense, Live,” I informed him.
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Tiny put in.
I glared at Tiny then declared, “I’m not even drinking so I’m definitely not buying another round.”
“You’re supposed to stop drinking after you know you’re knocked up,” Live educated me. “Not when you think you are.”
“Man, were you not there when I explained my history with Creed? I’m not pushing my luck,” I shot back.
He swung his beer around, slurring, “Mishin’ out.”
He was wrong. I’d so take a healthy baby over a drunken night out with the guys. Absolutely.