2. Sully #2
“The dinner where you ordered Irish whiskeys and insisted I drink with you?”
I almost stop her, because that’s not precisely how I remember it, but this conversation—and the way the night ended—makes me think that my hope that she dragged me out of my office for sex might not be that far off, and I don’t want to mess that up.
I’d bloody kill to be allowed to touch my wife again.
“Where we ended up in bed.”
“Our anniversary,” I remind her.
She scowls and hisses a yes .
She’s giving off a peevish vibe, yet she’s pulled me into the supply cupboard and she’s bringing up the last time we had sex? Color me confused.
She’s no longer speaking. Instead, she’s breathing heavily, bloody staring at me like she’s waiting for me to respond.
So I take a stab in the dark. “Did you bring me in here hoping for a repeat?”
She stomps her foot, and I swear smoke pours out of her ears .
“No,” she snaps. “I brought you into this damn closet to say I’m pregnant .”
The words rattle around my head, loosening cobwebs as thick as the ones in this dark, dusty space.
Utter elation hits me first. This may be the solution I’ve been searching for. If Sloane is pregnant, maybe she’ll want to be a family again. She’ll call off the divorce. We’ll have our second chance.
I still remember the first time we found out we were pregnant. It was seven years ago, and after almost a year of trying, my wife flew out of the master bathroom of our penthouse, a little pink stick in her hand and a smile on her face, shouting the words I’d been waiting to hear.
Everything is different this time around, though, because while Sloane is technically my wife, the ex part is there, floating in the periphery.
Could a baby be the answer? Honestly, another child has been the farthest thing from my mind since she asked me to move out.
Then again, the night she stayed over wasn’t in our plan, and look how that turned out.
Every day since our anniversary, I’ve been desperate to have her again. And again. I want to keep her forever.
But that’s not in her plans.
Now, though, those plans will have to be altered.
I take her in, scanning her fitted black dress, appreciating the way it clings to her luscious hips. I drink in the long legs that have always been my obsession, stopping only when I get to the sky-high rose gold heels. The ones with red souls. Her obsession.
She must have come from the office. She looks dressed for a day at the fancy firm where she works with the man who tried his best to steal her from me during law school.
Frustration flares like it always does when thoughts of her going to work for the enemy hit me.
They dissipate quickly, though, when I notice the tiniest of bumps pressing against her suit jacket.
It’s practically imperceptible. In fact, I’m probably imagining it.
It’s more likely the leftover C-section bump.
That doesn’t detract from the fact that this woman, the woman I still love more than words could express, is growing my child.
I blink at the idea. “Oh shit. You’re the incubator .”
Sloane’s mouth falls open, and she gasps.
My stomach instantly plummets. What a fucking terrible response. Anyone with half a brain would know not to say something that fucking stupid to a woman who’s just announced that she’s with child. Especially when said child is theirs. Apparently my brain shut down at pregnant .
Despite the faux pas, I can’t help but smile.
This might be exactly what we need. My wife is carrying my child.
A heady sensation rushes over me. There is nothing I want more in this world than my wife and son.
To put my family back together. And now, not only do I have the opportunity to pick up the pieces, but our family is growing.
“Incubator?” The word is rightfully shrill. While I’ve been skipping along, mentally healing our wounds, she’s been stuck on that. Can’t exactly blame her. That wasn’t my best moment.
Before I can respond, the door flies open and two people fall into a heap on the ugly gold carpet.
“Cal!” Lo, one of said people, yells at my brother, who is standing in the doorway.
Naturally, Cal would be the idiot who opened the door.
“Sloaney, you’re pregnant?” The sod breaks into a blinding smile. “Wait, if you’re pregnant, that means you have to move in.”
“Oh shit,” Brian says from where he’s still tangled up with Lo on the floor. “He’s right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloane hisses, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “Sully, tell them this is ridiculous.”
Despite my best efforts, my lips wobble into a smile.
The sensation is unfamiliar, like my facial muscles have forgotten how to do this.
But they’re right. This is perfect. “Of course you’re moving in.
You’re the incubator.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could inhale them, take them back, and rearrange them into something far more tactful.
I’ve never been known to speak out of turn, but with Sloane, I lose my head.
And technically—according to Madame E, at least—I’m not wrong.
Lo’s eyes are wide. “Shh, Sully. You’ll ruin it.”
“You called her an incubator ?” Brian glares at me as he heaves himself to his feet.
“This closet is for private conversations,” Sloane hisses before I can defend myself.
Lo gets to her feet with help from Cal, and when she’s steady, she shakes her head.
She and my wife are incredibly close. Until two minutes ago, their friendship was my only hope.
If it meant moving in with her best friend, then there was a minuscule chance that Sloane would give in and come to Jersey.
Now that she’s pregnant? Fuck, my lips twitch again.
My wife is pregnant. This is bloody brilliant.
“I don’t know why you think that. The walls are paper thin and everyone can hear everything.”
Lo’s right. Also, the cupboard is dark and dirty, and I have to duck to pass through the doorway. We should have stayed in my office, but the honest truth is that where Sloane leads, I follow. It’s been that way for about twenty years.
“We’re having a baby!” Cal shouts to the dingy ceiling.
My brother is a handful, always full of life and joy. Most days, it makes me want to clobber him. But at this moment, I’m struggling not to join in on the celebration. Because yes, we’re having a baby.
My wife turns her silent ire on my brother. If he’s not careful, he’ll go up in flames. This kind of fierceness is only one of the hundreds of things I miss about her.
I reach for her. “Sloane.”
She jerks back before I can touch her. “Maybe incubator is better. You should call me that from now on.” She glances past me to her purse. In a quick motion, she clutches it and storms out of the cupboard.
“ Sloane, ” I call after her .
She doesn’t stop. Of course she doesn’t. My wife has a temper like no other, and I set her off.
Rushing past the idiots I work with, I stalk after her.
“Sweetheart, wait.” I catch her arm before she makes it to the front door and force her to look at me.
“You are not an incubator. That was bad timing. It wasn’t even my first thought.
But Madame Esmeralda was just here telling us we were waiting for the incubator. ”
Her brow wrinkles. “Who?”
“The woman upstairs.” I shake my head. Bugger.
Suddenly her predictions seem a lot more accurate.
When she convinced Cal to get forty plants, a fish, and a cat the size of a small tiger, I thought she was out of her mind or fucking with the tosser.
But she told me in a roundabout way that Sloane was pregnant.
And if she knew that, then what else might she know?
Sloane lifts her chin in defiance. “The psychic lady told you I was an incubator?”
I nod. It’s eerie, really, but we have more important things to discuss than Madame E.
Like how far along my wife is or when she found out. Though I suppose I know the answer to the first question. In the last half a year or so, we’ve only been together once. That was six weeks ago.
“Did you take a test?” I ask instead.
“No,” she deadpans, hand on her hip. “The first thing I did when I realized my period was late was come over here and announce that I’m pregnant.” She jerks her purse open and digs around in it, then thrusts a photo at me.
My chest pinches at the sight of the black and white image.
“ You’ve been to the doctor. ” The words slip out in a tone more accusatory than I mean. Fuck, I’m a giant arse.
She steps away, putting space that I don’t want between us, and crosses her arms. “Of course I have. I tested. Then I went to the doctor and confirmed before I dropped this bomb on you.”
I sigh, my whole being sinking. This child doesn’t even have fully formed limbs, yet I’m already missing the important things. God dammit. Just like with T.J.,who I only see every other weekend and the occasional weekday now that Sloane and I are separated.
But complaining won’t help at this moment. No, in this moment, my wife and children are all that matter.
“It’s not a bomb, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” she growls.
Right. I’m not allowed to do that anymore. She made that clear.
“This isn’t a bomb,” I correct. “It’s incredible.”
She blinks, her blue eyes going a little glassy, and sucks in a breath. “You don’t want more kids.”
That isn’t entirely true, but this is not the time to get into that. “I will always love our family, no matter the size, because it’s ours.”
She scowls. “There is no ours.”
Pain ricochets through me. She’s wrong. This pregnancy is giving us another chance at an ours, and I won’t be the arsehole who messes up this gift.
“That’s not true,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “There will be an ours again.” Instinctively, I tuck her dark hair behind one ear, and for a moment, she almost leans into it. Smiling, I duck closer. “Because you’re carrying my heir, so now you have to move in with me.”
Her eyes narrow to slits and she steps away. Maybe her reaction should discourage me, but nothing could take away from the hope that’s pumping through my veins. My wife is pregnant. Everything is going to be perfect.