Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Woke up to an intruder in my room. Threw a pillow at him and screamed, only to find out it was Colt getting his workout clothes from the closet. The maniac woke me up at five-thirty in the morning with a heart attack, so it is my conclusion he deserved the thwack to the head.
When asked why he didn’t turn the lights on, the intruder said he’d tried not to wake me because “you’re an absolute bear when you’re tired”. This statement was found to be slanderous against all bears, since I am easily twice as ferocious and five times as hungry.
Colt, heretofore referred to as The Spouse, criticized my choice to start the day with a cup of coffee like any sane person because the caffeine levels were bad for me and our fictitious baby.
When I assured him the coffee was more for his survival than my enjoyment, he questioned whether I would also be drinking alcohol.
“You’re supposed to be pregnant, remember?
” I reminded him that the morning sickness wouldn’t be hard to fake, considering being in his presence made me nauseous.
The Spouse had no more complaints the rest of the morning.
The Spouse also has a breakfast schedule, because of course he does. On a related note, I have eaten an actual, bona fide breakfast for two consecutive mornings for the first time since I was in high school. This has been an unexpected perk in an otherwise irksome living arrangement.
The Spouse started his new job at the accounting firm and established contact with McBride to ensure everything was in place for making first contact with Gauthier.
I had my first day shadowing the dancing class I will be taking over teaching while the normal instructor goes on—irony of all ironies—maternity leave.
Rather than contemporary, ballet, or Zumba, I will be teaching ballroom dance.
While extremely fake pregnant. Nothing can possibly go wrong with that, I’m sure.
I returned from my class to find my coffeemaker mysteriously missing. The Spouse woke up this morning to find his apple juice mysteriously half gone. War has silently but unmistakably been declared.
COLT SNAPPED ME out of my mental play-by-play of the last few days with yet another question—the main reason I’d intentionally zoned out as soon as we were in the car. That, and the fact I was so wired I’d throw up if I let myself dwell on it.
“How long did we date before getting married?”
I rolled my eyes, doggedly keeping my body facing the window as the hospital slowly came into view. “A year before getting engaged, then eight months before getting married.”
“When is our anniversary?”
“June seventh. Which, by the way, is only a month away.” Maybe I’d surprise him with a new clothes iron. Or maybe a bona fide pocket protector.
Romance, thy name is Lex.
Surprisingly, we hadn’t hit nearly as many hiccups over the past few days as I’d expected.
That could be thanks to largely avoiding each other as much as possible, between unpacking—which Colt insisted we do immediately—and working.
Whatever the reason, I’d take it. Now came the easy part: getting close to a drug mastermind and his wife without tipping them off to our real identities or scaring them off by being too interested in them.
See? Easy.
“And which anniversary will we be celebrating this year?”
I huffed in annoyance, twisting as best as my tummy would allow to face him.
“Relax, Colt. We both know our covers—and each other’s—inside and out.
Our social media accounts with our aliases are live and incredibly legit-looking as of Saturday, and I’ve only managed to bump the tummy against unintended items five times all day. We’ve got this.”
Was I convincing him or myself? The jury was out on that one.
His mouth dipped into a frown, his brows pulling together. “And what gender is the baby?”
“We’re going to be surprised. But I think we should name it Tommy if it’s a boy, and Bella if it’s a girl.”
That extra tidbit caught his attention, blessedly distracting him from his line of questioning. He shot me a curious look as he maneuvered into a parking space. “Why those names, exactly?”
I shrugged like it was obvious. “Because one sounds like ‘tummy’ and the other sounds like ‘belly.’ Seeing as how there isn’t a real baby in here, I didn’t want to get too attached.”
As if that would be a concern for me, anyway. I’d decided years ago I wouldn’t have kids. I couldn’t do that to my future partner and myself, and I’d do well to remember that resolve.
He hummed noncommittally.
Before he could slip back into interrogation-slash-obsessing mode, I asked, “What would you name it?”
“James for a boy, Carissa for a girl.”
I paused with one foot out of the car. Huh.
He didn’t even have to think about it. I knew girls often picked out the names of their future kids, especially when fantasizing about their future spouse, but I’d never met a man who’d given it a second thought.
As far as I knew, men didn’t consider anything like that until the baby was on its way.
I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Not really.
This was Colt . He was as far from a typical male as I’d ever seen.
Everything had to be perfect for him, so why wouldn’t that include coming up with baby names?
He’d probably thought through every possible question Gauthier and his wife Vivienne could ask us, too.
I didn’t realize I hadn’t moved until Colt appeared on the other side of my open door. “What? Were the names that bad?”
I shook my head, mentally nailing my game face into place. I couldn’t let anything faze me. Especially not Colt, and especially not now when so much depended on us. “No. If anything, I couldn’t believe you’d come up with some so… normal .”
He rolled his eyes, the breeze ruffling his perfect hair. “Your regard for others continues to astound me, Lex.”
“Not others,” I corrected, placing a condescending pat on his chest as I hopped out of the car. “Just you.”
This earned me another eye roll and a consequent surge of satisfaction.
At least he wasn’t grilling me about the minutiae of our covers anymore.
Whatever it took to get him out of his head, I’d do it.
And if messing with him happened to be it, all the more fun for me.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Since we were inhumanely early at Colt’s insistence, we sat in the hospital lobby. At least we’d be able to see Gauthier coming when he arrived. That was the only upside I could find to being forced to spend one-on-one time in public where I had to disguise my dislike for my so-called husband.
He leaned closer to me, speaking low enough not to be overheard by the handful of others in the surrounding chairs. “How much do you know about Lamaze and pregnancy, exactly?”
“I took health class in high school.” At his disgusted sigh, I ground my teeth together. “That’s why this is a class , Colt. So we can learn .”
Sure, I’d looked up the do’s and don’ts of pregnancy so I wouldn’t get caught sipping a pina colada or eating sushi, but the finer points of Lamaze hadn’t been a priority, seeing as how I was supposed to be a student.
He muttered something under his breath, looking to the ceiling like it could gift him patience for having to deal with my infinite stupidity.
Would glaring at him draw too much attention? Even if he deserved it?
Instead, I settled on gripping his hand— hard . My smile might have been a touch shark-like, but he had it coming. “You have something you want to share with me, honey ?”
He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my grip, the corners of his mouth tipping up into his “patience” smile. “I only hope your lack of preparation doesn’t ruin this, newbie.”
Newbie, really? This again? Newsflash: I still hated it.
Oh, how I hated it. And everything about him.
The way his gym shorts and athletic tee hugged his deceptively athletic physique.
The way the wind had ruffled his hair so he no longer resembled the uptight butthead he really was.
The way he could look like an entirely different person with a simple wardrobe change—no fake belly necessary.
The way he caught every female in the lobby’s attention.
If only they knew him like I did. Their infatuation would die so fast.
But this more casual apparel, it was a good look on him.
A really good one. When he stretched to a more comfortable position in his chair, the shirt stretched with him and showcased some of the muscle he had unfairly hidden under starched shirts for so long.
Couple that with the dark depths of his eyes like roasting nutmeg, and I could see why all the women around me were watching him.
Even I almost forgot how much I hated him. Until he opened his mouth. Or breathed.
But, seeing as how he couldn’t stop breathing without severely complicating our assignment, the reminder was alive and well. And our hands were still connected so—try as I might—I couldn’t get his aggravating, nobody-should-look-that-good-in-a-T-shirt self out of my head.
Let the record show that, against all odds, I actually wanted his ironed get-up back. Sort of. I wanted it back in the way that you want to be the kind of person who craves an apple for a snack, but you’re already three scoops deep into Triple Ripple ice cream.
Not that I was speaking from experience or anything.