8. Jessica #2
Jordan releases him—not a shove, just an opening of his fist—and the reporter stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The camera swings between us, catching everything.
Jordan's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the car. The pressure is firm, possessive—not pushing, but claiming. His palm burns through my shirt like a brand. The cameraman follows, red light still blinking, but he keeps his distance now. Smart.
We reach the car. Jordan opens my door, and the movement is sharp, controlled—every muscle in his arm tight with barely-leashed violence. He waits until I'm inside, then closes it with a finality that reverberates through my bones. The sound echoes across the parking lot like punctuation.
The doors shut. Silence swallows the shouting, the ambient hum of traffic, everything. My ears ring in the sudden absence of noise.
Jordan's hands grip the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles bleach white. He's staring straight ahead, jaw working like he's chewing through words he won't say out loud. His breath comes fast through his nose, each exhale sharp enough to fog the windshield if the air weren't already warm.
"Are you okay?" His voice is tight, razor-edged with control he's fighting to maintain.
"Yeah." I touch my arm where the reporter grabbed me, fingers finding the exact spot where his grip dug in. The skin's already tender, the phantom pressure still there like fingerprints burned into muscle. "Are you?"
"I'll handle it." The words come out flat, final.
"Jordan—"
"I'll handle it." He turns to me, and the fury in his eyes—white-hot, barely banked—softens the instant it lands on my face.
His hand reaches across the console, palm sliding over my stomach with a reverence that makes my throat close.
The warmth of his skin seeps through fabric, grounding and possessive all at once. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. Just scared me." My voice wavers on the admission, and I hate it.
His jaw clenches again, teeth grinding. He looks like he wants to go back out there and finish what he started—like the only thing stopping him is the weight of his hand on my stomach, the fragile thing underneath it that needs him here more than it needs him out there breaking a stranger's jaw.
But then something shifts. His thumb strokes across my stomach—slow, deliberate, grounding. The movement pulls him back from the edge, anchors him to this moment instead of the violence still crackling under his skin.
"We're having a baby," he says quietly.
The words pull me back from the adrenaline crash, from the reporter's grip and the camera's red light. Back to the exam room. Back to congratulations and I wanted this and the smile on Jordan's face that looked like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"We're having a baby," I repeat, and the warmth floods back, pushing the fear into the corners where it can't quite reach.
Jordan starts the car. "You hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good." He pulls out of the parking lot, eyes checking the rearview mirror twice before he relaxes. "Because we're going to your favorite place, and you're going to eat everything you want."
"Why do I feel like there's a catch?"
"Enjoy everything. Because you're not getting any more sweet treats until you give birth."
I stare at him. "That's pretty harsh and rash."
His mouth curves. "Try me, baby girl."
The pastry shop smells like butter and caramelized sugar. The display case gleams with croissants, éclairs, fruit tarts glazed to a shine. Jordan orders half the case. I don't argue.
We sit by the window, spring sunlight pouring across the table. I bite into a chocolate croissant, and the layers shatter between my teeth—crisp, flaky, obscenely rich. Jordan watches me.
"You're really going to cut me off after this?" I ask around a mouthful of pastry.
"Yes."
"That's very Daddy of you."
"Good." He leans back, arms crossed, but his eyes are warm. "You're carrying my baby. I'm going to make sure you're both healthy."
The words carrying my baby settle in my chest like they belong there. I take another bite, savoring the chocolate, the butter, the knowledge that this is the last day of unrestricted sweetness.
"You planned this," I say again, because I still can't quite believe it.
"I did."
"For how long?"
He considers. "First time I finished inside you, I knew what I was doing."
"That was three months ago."
"I know."
"You're insane."
"Probably." He reaches across the table, thumb brushing a flake of pastry from my bottom lip. "But you're having my baby anyway."
I grin. "Guess you got what you wanted."
"Not yet." His gaze drops to my stomach, then back to my face. "But I will."
The maternity boutique is tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore, its windows dressed with mannequins in flowing dresses that accommodate bellies I don't have yet.
Yet.
Jordan holds the door open. Inside, the air smells faintly of lavender. Racks of dresses line the walls—soft cottons, stretchy knits, fabrics designed to grow with bodies that are about to change.
"Pick what you like," Jordan says.
"I'm not even showing."
"You will be."
A saleswoman appears, all smiles and professional warmth. "Can I help you find anything?"
"Dresses," Jordan says. "For the next six months."