Page 86 of Ruthless Claim

I spend the whole car ride home rehearsing.

The rehearsals do not go well.

Cillian, I need to tell you something.

Too ominous. He’ll think someone died.

So, funny story. It’s not funny.

I know we said no complications. Also not opening with that.

I’m pregnant. Simple. Direct. The exact words I said to Emma. But Emma is my best friend and I caught her off guard before my brain could stop my mouth.

Cillian is different.

He’s already home when I get in.

He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, doing something to a chicken that smells really, really good. His skill in the kitchen is one of the things about him that continues to surprise me.

He cooks better than I expected, but I refuse to tell him so because I told him on our wedding night that I didn’t learn to cook to spite my mother and I have a reputation to maintain.

He looks up when I come in. “How’s Emma?”

“Good. Seraphina is so big already and unfortunately looks like my brother.” I put my bag down and take my coat off. I am very calm. I am the picture of calm. “How was Connor?”

“Fine.” He looks at me for a second, his lips slightly pursed. “You alright?”

My heart beats loudly. “Perfectly.”

He turns back to the chicken. I go to the wine rack, reach for a bottle, and then stop.

Right. I can’t do that anymore.

My hand is wrapped on a bottle of Barolo and I think about the next thirty-threeish weeks of no wine and then however many months of breastfeeding and something about the wine rack is what finally makes it real to me.

More than the five tests or the nausea.

And definitely more than four days of carrying this secret around the apartment. The wine rack makes it real.

I’m having a baby.

I take a sparkling water instead and sit at the island and watch him cook, while feeling the words sit on my tongue, except my tongue is now fucking cement.

My stomach is a disaster.

It’s been a disaster all day but it’s worse now, the nausea sitting low and miserable, and on top of that I’m nervous.

The sparkling water is not helping, but it’s all I’ve got. I sip it and think about how to say we accidentally made a person to a man who is currently seasoning chicken.

He plates dinner and we sit down.

He starts telling me something about a meeting with Connor, something about Brooklyn, and I’m nodding at the right moments but I’m not hearing a word of it because I’m too busy trying to find the right sentence.

The food in front of me smells fine but my stomach has decided it’s offensive anyway.

I push it around. I take a bite.

I put my fork down. I pick my fork back up. I take a sip of water. I put the fork down again.