Chapter 22 Parker
PARKER
Ifrowned at my reflection in the mirror as I tugged the waistband of my skirt midway up my stomach for the third time.
How was I supposed to style anything nice when all I could comfortably wear were sweats and oversized T-shirts at this point?
My ivory sweater was baggy, which I was thankful for, but even then, no matter how I wore the skirt, something looked… off.
A light knock on the bedroom door had me pulling my sweater back down to cover my stomach.
Beckham nudged the door open, leaning a shoulder against the jamb.
His gaze roamed my body, eyes hungry despite him having been between my legs only an hour ago.
We’d been sticking to my no-kissing rule, but that hadn’t stopped Beckham from getting his lips on me any way he could over the past several days.
When he made it back to my face, his brows furrowed. “Something is wrong.”
I sighed, turning back to the mirror and pinching the fabric of my knit sweater between my fingers. “I just can’t figure out how to wear this.”
Gentle steps sounded on the floor before he stopped behind me. His arms came around my waist, his hands wrapping around my own and making me drop the material. “It’s a sweater, Park. Only one way to wear it.”
I scrunched my nose, both at his statement and the way my stomach seemed to pinch slightly. I’d had random nausea all throughout the day, and I was really hoping it’d disappear before dinner tonight. “I mean the skirt.”
His eyes dropped, studying it.
“I wanted to tuck the sweater into the top of the skirt so it’d look cute, but the waistband isn’t sitting right because of my stomach.” I tugged the sweater up slightly, running a hand over my belly. “What am I going to wear in a couple months when I’m even bigger?”
He rested his hand over mine, and a tiny kick met my palm. The sensation of my baby had my shoulders relaxing a fraction. Beckham’s presence at my back had my spiraling thoughts nearly dissipating altogether.
“My family won’t mind what you wear to Thanksgiving, Parker. Hell, you can show up in sweats and a sweatshirt if you want. We all only want you to be comfortable and happy.”
“I am happy,” I stated, despite the unknown constantly whirling around in the back of my mind.
He gave me a skeptical look. “And comfortable?”
Saliva pooled in my mouth and my stomach pinched again. My hand tightened over my belly, fingers gripping the fabric of the skirt before I shoved away from Beckham and beelined for the bathroom.
I threw the lid to the toilet open as I fell to my knees, and despite trying my best to hold it back, I emptied the contents of my stomach.
Mid-heave, a hand gently rested on my back, rubbing slow circles.
I went to grab for a tissue but Beckham beat me to it, holding one out to me.
After wiping my mouth, I mumbled, “Please don’t watch this.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
I heaved a sigh, attempting to calm the roiling of my stomach. “I’m gross.”
He continued his soothing circles on my back. “You could never be gross.”
I huffed a small laugh, but all it resulted in was another heave into the toilet. After a few minutes, and being sure there was nothing left for me to vomit, he shoved to his feet. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
I rolled my lips together, willing my stomach to relax enough for me to stand without fear of throwing up more.
When I reached up to grab the counter beside me, Beckham set a hand on my elbow, the other at my back, and helped lift me to my feet.
He disappeared while I washed my hands and brushed my teeth, and reappeared with a pair of sweats and one of his T-shirts.
“I don’t want to vomit on your shirt,” I said hesitantly.
He shrugged. “I’ve got a washing machine and twelve more if you need to change. I get the packs, remember?” His wink had a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Despite the shitty situation, he still managed to shine a little light.
He set the clothes on the counter and helped me undress, even unclasping my bra for me. He didn’t so much as glance at my breasts as he pulled the shirt over my head, then crouched to help pull the sweats up my legs.
Before I could take a step, he scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bed. With the sheets already pulled back, he set me down and pulled them up to my stomach.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured me before leaving the room. He was back less than five minutes later with all sorts of things. Water, a bottle of Tylenol, a plastic bowl, and a box of tissues. After neatly arranging them on my nightstand, he rounded the bed and crawled in next to me.
“I don’t want to get you sick,” I said, voice hoarse from vomiting.
With no hesitation, he looped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me onto his chest where he lay on his back. With a headache blooming and my skin feeling warm, his heartbeat settled whatever protests I was about to weakly deliver.
“Don’t worry about me, Park,” he murmured into my hair.
My arm draped across his stomach, thigh fitting over his like it used to. “I always worry about you.”
When minutes passed and he remained silent, the realization hit me. “Beckham, your family—”
“I already texted them that we weren’t coming tonight.”
I tried to sit up but he kept me in place. I wanted to tell him he could still go, but if this was contagious, neither of us would want to spread it to them. “But it’s Thanksgiving.”
“You come before any holiday,” he admitted. “We can have dinner with them another time.”
“Do they know why?”
I felt him nod. “Callan said Sage insisted you stay as hydrated as possible. And I think we should call your doctor after you take a nap.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I reminded him.
“An on-call nurse, then.”
The knowledge that Beckham was not only caring for me in this situation, but also my baby, had my heart growing to the size of the moon.
Would any other man have stayed for the vomiting?
Would they have thought to call a doctor to get advice on how to handle sickness during a pregnancy?
And would someone as close with their family as Beckham forfeit a holiday for the smell of puke and a girl with an oncoming fever?
Probably not. Especially not if that baby wasn’t theirs.
But here Beckham was, at every turn, showing me that he cared.
Not only by letting me stay in his house for the time being, but with every little thing.
Buying granola bars in the flavors he noticed me eating the most. Stocking the fridge with cans of Dr. Pepper, and bringing me an iced one from the gas station on his way home from the ranch.
All these little moments were turning into a load my heart couldn’t bear because my head kept telling me to keep this responsibility off his shoulders—to protect him from losing himself because of me.
But I think I was too late for all of that. Beckham had already inserted himself into this baby’s life, and I’d been the one to open the door to let him in.
I hadn’t realized it before, but he was already adjusting to me and my baby without the pressure of having to be a parent. He was doing this willingly.
Would he want to forever, though?
I woke to an empty bed.
The door was cracked, letting in a sliver of dim light from somewhere in the house.
My hand instinctively went to my stomach, checking for kicks.
I’d read once that the side effects of vomiting could induce labor, and the last thing I wanted to do was cause unnecessary stress on my baby.
I waited for what felt like minutes before I felt the shift of my boy.
A massive sigh of relief passed my lips, and then I rolled over to flick on the bedside lamp.
After my eyes adjusted to the light, I found a sticky note stuck to the side of a water bottle.
Drink me before getting out of bed.
The fact Beckham had written me a note had a smile playing on my lips. Though still slightly queasy, I felt significantly better than when I fell asleep—I blinked at the clock—three hours ago.
Had I really been out that long?
I glanced out the window to find it was dark out now. Uncapping the bottle, I took a small sip, testing how my stomach reacted before swallowing another. When no further nausea came, I slipped out of bed, slid into my fuzzy slippers, and left the room.
My sluggish steps were a clear sign I was trying not to make any sudden movements to upset my stomach again. I hated vomiting, and I was beyond thankful when I’d gotten out of the first trimester with little more than sore breasts and light cramping. Now, I seemed to be paying for it.
I reached the end of the hall, following where the light was emanating from, and found Beckham with his back to me, standing in front of the stove.
The house smelled delicious, and my stomach growled in acknowledgment. Realization hit me then that I didn’t feel as warm as when I’d fallen asleep. Maybe it was only something I’d eaten, and not the stomach flu.
I took another small sip of water before making my way to one of the stools.
Beckham turned then, eyes instantly scanning me. “How do you feel?”
I set the bottle on the counter. “Like I just puked my guts out.”
His jaw seemed stiff, his brows pulling in slightly.
“Better than earlier, at least,” I added, wanting to ease his worries a bit.
“That’s good.” He turned off the burner while simultaneously opening one of the upper cabinets and pulling out two bowls. “I made chicken noodle soup, if you’re up for it. Otherwise, I have bread and butter or crackers.”
I offered a small smile. “Soup sounds great. Thank you.”
I drank half the bottle while he dished up two bowls and spread butter on two slices of toast. It wasn’t garlic or cheesy or anything fancy. He was eating just as bland as I was. On Thanksgiving.
“I’m sorry this isn’t a turkey dinner,” I said as he set my portion in front of me.
He took the seat beside me. “This is even better.”
I twirled the spoon in the soup, guilt gnawing at me. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
His hand covered mine, ceasing my fiddling. Our eyes met. “I’m not lying, Parker. A night at home with you sounds a whole lot better than another dinner over there.” His thumb stroked my knuckles. “I’ve had a lifetime of those, but not nearly enough of you.”
This time, when my body warmed, I was certain it had nothing to do with a fever and everything to do with the man sitting beside me.
I wanted to say so many things back. That I’d missed him every day. Thought about him constantly. Always wished the few kisses I shared were his lips, not a stranger’s. How I woke up every morning wishing my dreams weren’t just dreams, but reality.
But when I stayed silent, not sure how to admit any of that without drawing him further into my mess, his touch left my hand and he picked up his own spoon.
“I texted you the nurse’s number for when you’re up for it,” he explained.
While anyone else might not have been able to hear how his tone dropped slightly, I did.
“I did some googling, which I know they say not to do, but I was worried—” He stopped himself, cleared his throat.
“Dehydration is the biggest concern, so between the broth and the water, you should be in the clear, but you should make an appointment just in case.”
A noodle slid off the side of my spoon where I moved it up and down in the soup. “I’ll call right after I eat.” I looked at him, barely catching the glance of his eye as he ate. “Thank you.”
He nodded, and we ate the rest of the meal in silence—though my head was anything but a quiet place. Second thoughts rooted themselves in the feelings that had resurfaced the moment I saw Beckham at my father’s funeral.
What if my fear of everything between us only resulted in pushing him away?