Chapter 46
Chapter Forty Six
Nico
By the time we get back to my house, the sun is already low and the day is sitting on Erica’s shoulders like a weight.
Her father is better.
Not safe. Not out of the woods. But better.
They’re still monitoring him. Still watching labs, blood pressure, all of it. But he continued to respond well again today. The attending said the same phrase twice—moving in the right direction—and Erica held onto it like a lifeline.
She still hasn’t said anything about the pregnancy.
And she’s been trying all day.
I can see it in the way her mouth opens and closes on nothing. In the way she starts a sentence, then diverts into something about her dad’s nurse or the next update, or whether she should call the ICU again in an hour or two.
I don’t push.
Not at the hospital, anyway.
I’m not dragging that conversation into a waiting room with bad coffee and worse news hovering in the air.
But now we’re home, and she’s upstairs showering, and I’m downstairs setting the table like this is just a normal Tuesday.
Like my hands aren’t steady because I finally have something to do with all this energy.
I plate the last of the food and set it on the table out in the garden, light the candles, adjust the cutlery by a fraction, then step back and look at the spread.
Perfect.
She’s going to love it.
I smile wickedly.
I hear her on the stairs before I see her.
Not the quick, determined footsteps she uses when she’s trying to outrun her own thoughts.
Hesitant. Careful. Like she’s not sure whether she’s walking into a surprise or a problem.
Then she appears at the turn—hair damp, face clean, and wearing the dress I laid out on the bed.
She pauses there, fingers on the banister, looking down at me like I’ve lost my mind.
The dress fits her like it was made for her. Simple. Elegant. Soft at the waist. Not tight anywhere that would make her feel trapped.
Her eyes flick over me.
I’m dressed too.
Button-down. Dark slacks. Watch. No tie.
Her brows knit.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Come here,” I say.
She comes down the rest of the steps slowly, still watching me like I might change the rules mid-stride.
When she reaches the last step, she stops. Her gaze drops to my shirt, then back up.
“Why am I dressed up?”
“Because I want you dressed up,” I say, like it’s obvious.
Her cheeks heat. She looks away.
I hold my hand out.
She stares at it for a beat, then places her hand in mine.
Her fingers are warm. Mine tighten around them.
“Outside,” I say.
She lets me lead her through the back of the house and out onto the patio, where the garden opens up behind the stone.
A table is set under soft lights—white cloth, candles, plates already warmed.
She stops again.
Her eyes go wide.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Nico.”
I glance at her.
“Sit,” I tell her.
She does, still looking at everything like she expects it to disappear any minute.
“I wanted to do something special tonight,” he says. “In celebration of your dad, but also, just because. We haven’t had a lot of time alone, so I thought it would be nice to do a full dinner with all the courses tonight. Dress up a little but still keep it casual.”
Her lips curve as she looks into my eyes.
“I love that idea,” she says softly.
I almost wish this were exactly what she thinks it is. But we’ll do it again soon. Tonight, I have other plans.
At my signal, a staff member, David, steps out from the side door carrying the first course.
He sets a tray down between us.
A board of meats and cheeses. Thin-sliced prosciutto. Salami. A soft wedge of brie. Crumbled feta. Olives. Honey. Crackers. Bread.
A bottle of white is opened and poured.
I watch Erica’s eyes flick to the wine.
Then to the brie. The prosciutto. The honey.
All items that pregnant women can’t have.
She smiles at David, polite, and murmurs a thank you.
Her hands don’t move toward the food.
She takes a cracker. Breaks it in half. Sets it down again.
I lift my glass.
“A toast,” I say.
Her gaze snaps to mine.
She lifts her glass hesitantly.
“To your dad,” I say. “To his continued improvement.”
Her throat works.
“To my dad,” she echoes, and her smile is real in that moment—soft, grateful, shaky around the edges.
Until I clink my glass to hers and drink.
She brings the glass to her lips.
And then she doesn’t.
Not really.
Her mouth barely touches the rim before she lowers it again.
I let my gaze drift slowly over the board. Then back to her face.
She’s clearly in distress. My mouth threatens to twitch.
I take a piece of prosciutto and a slice of brie and eat like I’m not watching her inspect all the items on the table with the focus of a bomb technician.
She picks up a piece of bread and tears it, slowly.
Chews. Swallows.
Her eyes don’t meet mine.
“Try the brie,” I say.
Her shoulders lift a fraction.
“I’m… not really in the mood for cheese.”
“Not in the mood for cheese?” I ask. “You love cheese.”
She shrugs. “Just not feeling it today,” she says. Then she grabs an olive and eats it like it’s her job.
After a while, David appears again, clears the first course, and sets down the second.
Caesar salad.
Perfectly plated. Crisp romaine. Shaved parmesan. Croutons.
Already tossed in Caesar dressing.
Which pregnant women shouldn’t eat.
Erica’s eyes widen a fraction. Then she looks at me like she’s about to confess to a crime.
“Eat,” I say, because I can see her gearing up to talk her way out of it.
She picks up her fork.
Spears a crouton.
Then sets it back down.
“I’m not really hungry,” she says.
I lean back in my chair.
“But you were starving a little while ago,” I say. “Are you feeling all right?”
Her face heats, but she nods.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She stares at the salad as if it offended her personally.
Then she finds the one piece of dry lettuce on there and takes a skimpy bite. Then goes back for more bread.
I watch her chew. Watch her swallow. Watch her try to look like this is normal.
My thumb taps once against the stem of my wine glass. I pick it up and drink. She picks up her water and drinks again.
Once again, David clears the plates. Erica’s fork hasn’t touched anything except lettuce and one crouton she didn’t even eat.
I keep my face neutral.
Not yet.
Then the entrée arrives.
Steak tartare. Carbonara. Red wine poured into our glasses.
The kind of dinner most people would consider an event.
None of which a pregnant woman can eat.
Erica goes very still. So still, I can almost hear her brain racing.
Her gaze flicks to the tartare. Then to the carbonara. Then to the wine. Then back to me.
I watch her reach for her fork hesitantly.
“Eat,” I say again, softer this time. “You’ve barely eaten all day.”
She lets out a breath.
“Nico.”
The way she says my name tells me she’s right at the edge.
I lift a brow.
“Yes?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her cheeks go a little pinker.
And then she does something that almost makes me laugh.
She reaches for the carbonara. Twirls a bite onto her fork. And then, at the last second, she pauses. Sets it down.
“I think… I want something plain,” she says.
“Plain.”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “Like… toast.”
I look at the plates. Then I look at her.
“Toast,” I repeat.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t start.”
I lean forward and reach my hand out to her forehead.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask softly. “What’s going on?”
Her fingers curl around her water glass like it’s an anchor.
She looks at the food again. Then at me. Then away.
And I can see it—everything she’s fighting. The fear. The timing. Her father still in the ICU.
“Try to eat a little, okay?” I say. All I want to do is pull her into my arms and give her whatever she wants.
But I need to see this through, so I eat some food, hoping to entice her, and steel myself for one last course.
Then David shows up with dessert.
Tiramisu and a sweet dessert wine.
Erica’s eyes flick to the tiramisu, and I see that this is the final straw.
She swallows hard. I don’t bother to tell her to eat this time.
I just watch her reach her breaking point. She rubs her nervous fingers together, then looks up at me, eyes wide and terrified.
“Nico,” she says again.
My chest tightens.
“Yes,” I answer.
Her voice shakes, just a little.
“I can’t.”
I keep my expression and tone neutral.
“Can’t what?”
She gestures at the table with a helpless little motion.
“This,” she says. “Any of it.”
I tilt my head.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t eat any of this. Literally any of it.”
“Why?”
She stares at me for a moment, and then her eyes widen, like she just figured something out.
They narrow on me.
“I can’t eat any of it. Literally,” she says.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sweetheart,” I say.
She pushes away from the table and stands.
“No,” she says, her finger pointing at me. “Oh no, you don’t.”
I smile, just a little. It’s my fault, I know. I wanted to see how long she would hold on.
“You,” she says again. “You did this on purpose.”
“I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of,” I say, still trying to keep a straight face.
“Everything here is… off limits,” she says, looking around at the spread. She meets my gaze again.
"Off limits to whom?“ I say, finally letting my smile show.
She stares at me. Then she points at her own belly.
“Off limits to the person who’s growing a tiny, defenseless human who should not be served raw meat, unpasteurized cheese, raw eggs, or wine.” Her breath hitches, tears welling. “You knew.”
She puts her hands over her face, and my heart hurts. I need to fix this.
I’m up, my chair scraping back.
I pull her into my arms, her head buried against my shoulder.
“Hey,” I murmur into her hair. “Hey. Look at me.”
She lifts her head, her eyes wet. “You’re so mean.”
“I know,” I say, my thumb brushing her cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "I'm horrible."
She hits my chest, but it’s a weak little thing.
“It’s not funny,” she says, even though she’s trying to smile. “I’ve been trying to tell you all day.”