Chapter 11 Felix
FELIX
When I wake up the next morning, the bed beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Morning light filters through the edge of the curtain, pale gold banding across the dresser on the other side of the room. Except for the soft hum of the baby monitor, my room is quiet. Too quiet.
I barely have time to register Piper’s absence before a sound from down the hall makes my stomach tense. That’s definitely retching.
I’m out of bed before my brain fully processes what’s happening, grabbing shorts from the floor and yanking them on as I move. The noise is coming from Piper’s room, the one she didn’t sleep in last night but apparently retreated to at some point while I was dead to the world.
The bedroom door is cracked open, and I can hear her being violently sick in the adjoining bathroom.
“Piper?” I push the door open and find her hunched over the toilet, one hand braced on the seat, the other clutching the edge of the vanity.
She’s wearing one of my new Grizzlies T-shirts, her long legs curled under her. For a moment, my body—and heart, if I’m being honest—has a visceral reaction to seeing her in my shirt. Mine, the internal choir chants, like she belongs to me.
I tell the stupid chanters to shut the fuck up. Because it isn’t true, and this isn’t the time to go full-on caveman. Not when it’s clear she’s suffering, her normally creamy skin clammy and tinged green.
“Go away,” she manages weakly.
No fucking chance.
I cross the room and drop to my knees behind her. Smoothing away the strands of hair that have escaped her messy bun, I rest my other hand on her back.
“I’ve got you, Hart.”
“Felix, I’m serious. Leave.” Another wave hits her, and she curls forward with a miserable groan.
It makes my chest ache, and I stay right where I am, rubbing small circles on her back the way I do when Ellie’s upset, murmuring nonsense that I hope is soothing.
When the wave finally passes, she flushes the toilet and slumps back against the wall with her eyes closed.
I grab a washcloth from the rack, run it under cool water, and press it to her forehead.
“I hate this.”
And I hate hearing her sound so defeated. “I know.” The words feel inadequate, but I don’t know what else to say. “Let me help.”
“You can help by leaving. I look disgusting, I feel disgusting, and I don’t need an audience right now.”
“Think of me as a super fan.” I keep the washcloth on her forehead, using my free hand to stroke her bare thigh. “For the record, you could never look disgusting.”
She cracks one eye open to glare at me. “I just threw up everything I’ve eaten in the past day. There’s nothing attractive about that.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“You’re insane.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that. Is it safe to move away from the porcelain throne?”
“For now,” she whispers.
I help her to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist because she’s swaying slightly. She seems too fragile, and something protective flares in my chest. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“You’re missing it.” She gestures weakly to the perfectly made bed in her room as I steer her toward the door.
“My bed is more comfortable.”
I don’t give her a chance to protest, just scoop her up as carefully as I can and carry her down the hall to my room.
She doesn’t argue, which tells me how awful she feels.
The Piper Hart I know—and like more than is smart for either of us—would rather gargle shards of glass than let me take care of her.
But this is becoming a habit I don’t mind at all.
I pull back the covers with one hand and lay her down, tucking the sheet and comforter around her.
She immediately curls on her side, and I grab another pillow to prop behind her back.
“When’s the last time you kept food down?”
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know. Yesterday morning? The focaccia didn’t bother my stomach, so I thought I’d turned a corner. Not much else has agreed with me the past couple of weeks.”
Weeks? Jesus Christ.
“That’s it. We’re going to urgent care.”
“No, we’re not.” She shifts against the pillows, pulling the covers higher. “I’m fine, Felix. It’s just—”
“Don’t tell me food poisoning, because you’ve been sick the entire time we’ve been here. That’s not normal.” I pace to the window and back. “You fainted on the trail. You barely eat. You’re exhausted all the time. Something’s wrong, and we’re getting it checked out.”
“Felix—”
“I mean it, Piper. I’ll get Ellie up and then we’re going.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I’m going to call ahead and arrange for us to enter through a back door so—”
“I know what’s wrong.” The words hang between us, the panic in her eyes making my stomach drop.
“Okay.” I try to keep my voice calm, even though my heart is suddenly trying to punch its way out of my chest. I take a step closer. “What is it?”
She takes a breath, closes her eyes, and says, “I’m pregnant.”
My world tilts sideways like I’m on one of those carnival rides designed to make you hurl the hot dogs, soda, and cotton candy you spent hours shoving in your face. I understand the words individually. She’s pregnant. But my brain can’t seem to take them on board in a way that makes sense.
“You’re...” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Pregnant.”
“About twelve weeks,” she confirms quietly.
Twelve weeks. The math clicks into place with all the subtlety of a freight train.
“That would mean April,” I say. “Denver?”
She nods. Her eyes are open now, but she’s staring down at the striped pattern of the comforter like it can give both of us the answers we need.
One night in Denver, celebrating my signing with the Grizzlies. The same night Piper was at her college friend’s bachelorette party. Drinks. Dancing. Shots. The hotel room and a night we both agreed was a mistake and swore we’d never mention again.
“Holy shit.” I run both hands through my hair, my mind racing almost as fast as my heartbeat. “It’s my baby.”
“Yes.”
Turns out that freight train was carrying a shit-ton of emotions, dumping them on me until it feels like I’m buried alive. I move toward the bed and crouch down so Piper and I are at eye level, not even trying to hide the frustration I can feel radiating from every cell of my being.
“When the fuck were you going to tell me?”