17. Atticus
SEVENTEEN
ATTICUS
Something is wrong. I don’t know what, but there’s this feeling in my gut that is nagging at me.
Betty, Etta, Octy, Leo, and Knight all got back a few hours ago.
The girls wouldn’t tell me anything other than that Lemon had found a dress that she absolutely loves and that the rest of the girls were taking her to lunch.
But that was four hours ago. Even the longest of lunches would have been over by now, and she still hasn’t called or texted me. Part of me had expected her to come to me, but we hadn’t made plans, and she knows that I’m working.
Still, it’s rare that we choose to spend time apart when we could be together, even if it’s while the other is working.
I’ve practically got my own seat at the patisserie.
I’ve eaten so many sweets in the past month that I’ve had to start doubling my workouts just to counteract all the baked goods I’m eating.
So why isn’t she here? Perhaps she’s gone to look for shoes or other wedding accessories. That would make sense, but she hasn’t texted me to tell me that either. Forcing myself to focus on the tattoo I’m doing, I push thoughts of Lemon to the back of my mind and concentrate.
An hour later, I’m done, and my client is staring at the hyper-realistic portrait I’ve put on his arm like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“It’s her,” he says, emotion thickening his voice. “Atticus, Jesus, it’s…it’s her. Thank you. Fuck, thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. I’m really glad you’re happy with it,” I tell him.
When he holds his hand out to me, I reach out and take it, and he shakes firmly. “Thank you. You’ve given me a piece of her back that I’ll carry with me forever,” he says, his voice shaky.
Nodding in silent understanding, I wrap his arm up, then send him over to Leo, who checks him out.
“Jesus, Atticus, your client just left you a thousand-dollar tip.” Leo whistles after the guy has left and the door has closed behind him.
I nod, but honestly, right now I don’t really care. “I have to go,” I say, packing up my stuff and shoving it into my bag before I make a beeline for the door.
“Wait, don’t you have another client?” she calls after me.
“Yes, in an hour. If I’m not going to be back, I’ll call them and rearrange,” I tell her absently as I rush out of the door and toward my car.
It only takes a few minutes to drive home, and I wait impatiently for the gate to slide open before I accelerate into the courtyard, abandoning my car in my haste to find Lemon.
Ignoring my brother and the weird deep house music he’s listening to, I dart up the stairs and push into the loft, already shouting her name the moment I step inside. “Lemon! Lemon, are you here?”
The living room and kitchen are empty, so I head for our bedroom, but it’s empty too.
“Lemon,” I call, but there’s no reply. Our closet is empty, so I step into the bathroom, already convinced she’s not here.
But when I look around the doorframe, I find her sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest, her gaze vacant and fixed ahead.
Panic punches me in the chest. “Lemon, fuck. Are you hurt? Are you in pain? Lemon?” Dropping to my knees next to her, I palm her face in my hands. “Lemon, Lemon.”
After a long, silent pause, her gaze slides to me, but the moment she sees me, huge tears fill her eyes, slowly falling in rivulets down her cheeks.
“Princess, what’s happening? Tell me what’s wrong,” I beg.
More tears fall, fat tears that make my heart break and pain fill my chest. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
“What? Why are you sorry? What’s happening? What hurts?” I ask, desperate to know what’s going on.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again.
“Why are you sorry?” More tears fall, and I snap. “Lemon, are you hurt?” My voice is sterner than it should be, but I need answers.
“No,” she rasps.
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Are you ill?” I ask, tensing as I wait for her answer.
“No,” she says again.
“Then what the fuck is going on?” I demand.
Her gaze darts to the counter, and as I follow it, I see something sitting on the top.
Rising to my feet, I step closer and see a white foil packet with a thin strip sitting on top of it.
Carefully lifting it, I examine it. It’s clearly some kind of test, but there’s nothing printed on it to say what it’s testing for.
Then I spot the box. It’s small, pink, and face down on the counter.
Lemon makes a pained noise when I pick it up and turn it over. “Pregnancy test,” I read aloud. Looking at the test, all I see are two lines. What does that mean? Is she pregnant? Isn’t she pregnant?
“Lemon,” I call, but she’s already looking at me, fresh tears rolling down her face. “You took a pregnancy test?” I question.
She nods.
“Are you pregnant?”
A muffled sob falls from her lips as she nods again.
“You’re pregnant?” I question again. “Are you sure? There are two lines. Shouldn’t there be a cross or something?”
Blinking, her expression turns pensive. “I thought…I…”
Her words fade away, so I shake the box onto the counter until a folded set of instructions falls out. Unfolding the thin sheet of paper, I scan the instructions until I get to the bit about reading the results. “Two lines—a control line, and a second line means pregnant.”
“There are two lines,” she whimpers.
“There are two lines,” I repeat. “You’re pregnant.”
“It could be a false positive,” she whimpers, tears still rolling down her cheeks.
“So let’s take another test,” I say, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
“I don’t need to pee,” she whimpers.
“I’ll get you a drink.” Stumbling out of the bathroom, I make a beeline for the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, then another, and rush back to the bathroom. Lemon is still on the floor, so I crouch down beside her, open the first bottle, and hand it to her.
Her hands are shaking as she reaches out and takes it from me, bringing it to her lips and drinking deeply. Neither of us speaks while she gulps down the first bottle and then the second.
“I need to get another cup,” she says, her voice small and meek.
“Where are they? I’ll get one.”
“In the bottom cabinet with the platters.”
Rushing back into the kitchen, I grab another bottle of water just in case she needs it, then practically run for the bedroom as hope starts to bloom inside of me.
“Do you need this?” I ask, forcing myself to sound calm as I hand her the bottle, but she shakes her head.
Taking the cup from me, she glances at the door. “I should…” She gestures with the cup.
“Okay,” I say, not even glancing in the direction of the door.
“Maybe some privacy,” she suggests.
“No,” I refuse.
“Atticus,” she whispers.
“Here.” Taking the cup back, I lift her up from the floor and carry her to the toilet, lifting her skirt for her, then positioning the cup between her legs as I pull her to sit down.
Closing her eyes like she can’t believe this is happening, she jolts when I spread my palm over her thigh. “Settle, Princess,” I coo softly.
Her eyes squeeze closed even tighter as the sound of liquid hitting the cup fills the room. Once she’s finished, I tap her leg, signaling for her to stand up, then place the cup on the counter beside the one I hadn’t noticed before.
After we both wash our hands, she retreats back a step while I rip open another test. I read the instructions again before I dip the end of it into the cup of pee. Neither of us speaks while I time fifteen seconds on my watch, then place the test onto the foil wrapper, the same way she had done.
Reaching for her hand, I squeeze it tightly as three minutes count down. When the time is up, I lean down, feeling resistance on my hand as she tries to pull her fingers free. Not letting her go, I tighten my hold, then pull her to me as I look at the test and the two clear lines.
“You’re pregnant,” I say, not able to hide my pleasure this time.
“I know,” she says, without a hint of happiness.
“You’re not happy?” I question.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I’m on birth control. I promise I am. I didn’t do this deliberately,” she rambles, fresh tears soaking her cheeks.
“Princess. Lemon,” I call her, trying to get her attention.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know how this happened,” she says so quickly I can barely understand her.
“Lemon,” I shout, loud enough to garner her attention.
Blinking, her lips press together, but I can see the bottom one trembling.
“I know exactly how this happened. I’ve spent the last month fucking as much cum into you as humanly possible,” I tell her, failing to hide the hint of pride in my tone.
“Do you want children?” I ask her, feeling like an idiot for not having already had this conversation.
If she says no, I have no fucking clue what I’ll do.
“Yes, but…”
“Ask me,” I demand.
“What?”
“Ask me if I want children.”
“Do you want children?” she whispers.
“Fuck, yes. I want a house full of them. I want a dozen beautiful little girls who look just like their perfect mommy. I want you pregnant, those perfect fucking tits of yours full of milk, your beautiful belly round with our child. I want it all.”
“You do?” she asks, a hint of hopefulness slipping into her tone.
“I want as many babies as you’ll give me, and I don’t care if we start now or in six months or six years.”
“I swear I didn’t do this to trap you,” she assures me, her expression open and earnest.
“Princess,” I sigh. “I never for a fucking moment considered that you did. And even if this was all some crazy plan, then count me in. Fucking trap me. Tie me to you in every way you know how. Use every trick in the book to make me just as yours as you are mine, because if it was me doing the trapping, I’d play as dirty as I had to to keep you, and I’d do whatever it took to make sure you could never get free. ”
A broken, half sob, half laugh bubbles from her lips. She’s still crying, but she’s trying to smile through it. “Atticus.”
Pulling her close, I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly to me. “My baby is growing inside of you, Lemon. This is a good thing.”
“It is?” she questions, her words muffled against my chest.
“Of course it is,” I exclaim, pulling her away so I can look at her face. “I love you. We’re getting married, and we just found out we’re having a baby. This is fucking fantastic. Don’t you want this baby?”
My heart stutters as I wait for her answer. I have no idea what I’ll do if she tells me she doesn’t want our child. I’ll respect her choice, but it’ll break my heart.
It feels like it takes forever for her to answer. “I…” Her words trail off as she lowers her hand and places it over her stomach.
A wide smile spreads across my face as I cover her hand with mine. “Tell me you want our baby.”
“I want our baby.”
“Tell me you want a house full of babies.”
“I want a house full of babies.”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” she says softly.
“Thank fuck for that, because I love you too.”
The End.