Searching For His Omega - Harper B. Cole Page 0,26

boiling dry? Dunno, what else was there?”

“Are you fucking with me?” I asked as I collapsed on the sofa with a bottle of water clutched in one hand.

“Nope, but I wish I was.” That wicked grin sent shivers up and down my spine even though he was hundreds of miles away. He should bottle that look and sell it. He could make millions.

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of water. “You really don’t recall?”

He rubbed his chin and said, “Oh, you mean when you removed your clothes as I drooled and then kissed you all over until you begged for my cock? That? Oh yeah, I have a vague memory of it.”

“Fucker!” If he was here, I’d toss a cushion at his head.

He did a sexy head wobble. Who does that and how does he make it so freakin hot? “I am, and I’m so good, I knocked you up the first time.”

“You had help!”

“What? No. My little swimmers are ace!”

“Anti-anxiety meds?” I reminded him. “Or did that slip your mind?”

“Pfft! Those? Nah.”

I yawned and Chet asked, “You getting enough sleep?” I almost answered, “Yes, dad,” but stopped myself. It sounded weird, and he was doing his best.

“You should tell the staff about the baby.”

“Soon.” I didn’t want them to treat me differently, and I dreaded the, “Who’s the alpha daddy?” question. There would be enough gossip fodder for the whole town to chew on for years.

We hadn’t decided how much Chet would be in the baby’s life with him living far away and being on the road nine months of the year. And as to whether we had a place in one another’s lives, neither of us could answer that. Not yet. Or maybe ever. We were inching our way forward to friendship and co-parenting. Everything else was unknown.

“Anyway, are you eating okay?” he asked.

I sighed. It was sweet how concerned he was about my health, and each week a food order arrived at my door. Seven meals. All prepped and ready to cook, except today there’d been a screw-up which was why it was lasagna for dinner. But it wasn’t food that concerned me. “You’re not worried, are you? About me going off my meds?”

Apart from Chet and Abrar, my therapist was the only person I’d told about the baby. We’d discussed it, and she said despite the not-planning thing, I was coping well. What she was concerned about was emotional support. There were plenty of single parents doing a great job of parenting, but they needed back-up. Whether it was family, friends, neighbors, or their other half.

“No. I’ve got your back and trust you to tell me if there’s a problem.”

But he wasn’t here here. He was on the screen here, and much as I appreciated, it wasn’t the same as having arms wrapped around me.

“Stan, I love us talking and getting to know one another.”

How had we gone from, “I’m here,” to the dreaded I’m-about-to-tell-you-something-bad-and-here-it-comes conversation? Oh, God. I’d had these before. I knew how this went. Same with staff evaluations. Say the good stuff first and then hit ‘em with the bad news. I instinctively hunched over, wanting to protect myself from what was coming.

Was it because of my past? Having a gun pulled on you was rare. Thankfully. And when people found out, they often reacted as though it were contagious or that I was covered with the stench of funny business.

But Chet hadn’t reacted that way. He’d listened and asked questions and told me to call him day or night if I was anxious and needed a sympathetic ear.

“But I’d like to be in the same room as you.”

Huh? “Say that again.”

He pointed at the screen. “You.” And then at himself. “Me.” And beat his chest. “Together.”

I snorted with laughter, not only because his caveman routine was funny, but also with relief. He wasn’t running away screaming, though he if he hadn’t done it when I told him I was pregnant, odds were he wouldn’t be doing it now. But that little wobble just now had my pulse speeding up.

“Get it?”

“I think so.” I giggled. “But how’s that going to happen? I’m here and you’re not.”

“You could come visit.”

Wow! That was a huge step. Me entering his world. “I have a job, Chet. One that requires me to front up six days a week, more if someone’s sick. I can’t take off. I took three months sick leave after the accident.”

“There is another option.”

“Which is?”

“I stay with you for a week