Chapter 30
Denying a Pregnant Woman Cake
Christa
The flat has stopped feeling borrowed.
Not mine. Not his. Just… used. Lived in. Slightly rearranged without a meeting about it.
I’m perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island, laptop open in front of me, tapping away with the kind of focus that only happens when my inbox is behaving and the baby is temporarily not tap-dancing on my bladder. Both feel suspicious.
Geoff is unpacking shopping bags with the quiet seriousness of a man who believes groceries deserve respect. Cold things first. Bread placed gently, like it might bruise.
We’re not talking. We don’t need to. This is the good quiet. The one that doesn’t itch.
I’m halfway through an email when I see it.
A small white box. Innocent-looking. Nestled between a bag of apples and something aggressively green.
I pause.
Tilt my head.
Stare at it like it might scuttle away.
Fairy cakes.
Actual fairy cakes. Iced. Sprinkled. Entirely unmentioned.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. “What’s in the box?”
Geoff doesn’t look up. “Shopping.”
“Are these fairy cakes?”
“They’re for Lucy,” he says, far too casually. “I promised her an afternoon tea when Theo and Ivy drop her off in a minute.”
I swivel on the stool. Slowly. Dangerously.
“Those fairy cakes,” I say, “come in a pack of sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“Lucy is six.”
“Yes.”
“No child in the history of childhood has ever eaten sixteen fairy cakes.”
He finally looks at me. “You underestimate her.”
“I absolutely do not,” I say. “I am questioning your maths.”
He lifts the box and tucks it against his chest. “They are not for you.”
“I didn’t say they were.”
“You implied it with your eyes.”
“I was assessing stock levels,” I reply coolly. “For safety.”
“For whose safety?”
“Mine,” I say. “And potentially yours.”
He snorts. “Hands off. They’re for Lucy.”
I slide off the stool. “I’m just saying, if Lucy eats more than two, she’ll vibrate through several dimensions.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“She’ll be a sugared-up menace.”
“She’s already a menace.”
I reach for the box. He pivots away.
“Geoff.”
“Christa.”
“You cannot seriously expect me,” I say, “a pregnant woman with impeccable taste and very reasonable needs, to ignore sixteen fairy cakes sitting openly on the counter.”
“They are not open.”
“They are in a box with a window,” I point out. “That’s entrapment.”
He laughs and lifts the box higher. I make a grab for it. He steps back. I lunge again. He blocks me with his shoulder. Why must he be so unfairly tall and me such a garden gnome?
This escalates quickly.
“Give me one,” I demand.
“No.”
“Two.”
“No.”
“Half.”
“Absolutely not.”
I jump. He dodges. I grab the corner of the box. He holds on. For a second we’re both frozen, hands gripping cardboard, staring at each other like this is a standoff in a very stupid western.
“You realise,” I say breathlessly, “that if you drop them, Lucy will cry and that will be on you.”
“You realise,” he shoots back, “that if I let go, you’ll eat three before I can blink.”
“I would never.”
We wrestle gently, bumping into the island. I squeak when he pins the box against the counter with one arm, using the other to block me.
“Geoff,” I hiss. “You are denying a pregnant woman cake.”
“I am protecting a child’s afternoon tea.”
“I am also carrying a child.”
“Different child.”
I glare up at him. He grins back, eyes bright, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
There’s a knock at the door.
We both freeze.
Very slowly, he lowers the box.
I smooth my hair, straighten my top, and step back like I haven’t just tried to mug him for baked goods.
He clears his throat. “Afternoon tea,” he says solemnly. “For Lucy.”
I smile sweetly. “Of course.”
But, as he turns toward the door, he slides one fairy cake across the counter toward me without looking.
I pick it up instantly.
Balance, after all, is important.
A little later, I’m back at the kitchen island, laptop open, pretending I’m working.
Geoff is on the floor wearing a sparkling tiara and a pink cape that definitely came from the dressing-up box and definitely does not fit him. Lucy is sitting cross-legged opposite him in a full princess dress, crown slightly askew, presiding over the coffee table like royalty.
Afternoon tea is in full swing.
Mini sandwiches cut into shapes that may once have been triangles. Fairy cakes with bites already missing. Sliced fruit arranged with the seriousness of a state banquet.
“More tea, Your Majesty?” Geoff says in an uber posh voice, tipping the teapot with exaggerated care.
Lucy gasps. “Not too much. I don’t want it to spill again.”
“Understandably,” he says. “That was a regrettable incident.”
“It was a flood,” she tells him. “A tragic flood.”
“I have learned from my mistakes,” he says solemnly. “I am a changed man.”
I glance down at my screen, type a sentence, delete it, then look up again.
He’s fully committed. Knees folded awkwardly. Cape tangled around his arm. Tiara slipping sideways every time he nods seriously at Lucy’s instructions. He listens to her. Really listens. Lets her interrupt. Lets her correct him. Lets her lead.
When she drops a sandwich, he doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up, asks if it’s still acceptable by royal standards, then replaces it without fuss when she wrinkles her nose.
Something warm blooms in my chest.
Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just steady and unmistakable.
I watch the way he laughs with her, not at her. The way he lets her be dramatic without dampening it. The way he’s gentle without making a show of it. Like this isn’t performance. It’s instinct.
My fingers still on the keyboard, I realise I’ve stopped working entirely.
Because I can see it. Too easily.
Him on the floor like this again. Only next time with a smaller body. A softer head tucked under his chin. A little girl who looks suspiciously like both of us, demanding fairy cakes and stories and absolute devotion.
Our daughter.
The thought lands and stays.
Not frightening. Not complicated.
Just… right.
Lucy holds up a fairy cake. “Uncle Geoff, you have to eat this one.”
Geoff peers at it. “That’s a lot of icing.”
“You’re very brave,” she says seriously.
He sighs. “For the kingdom.”
He takes a huge bite. I snort before I can stop myself.
He looks up, catches my eye and grins, icing stuck to his lips.
Lucy follows his grin straight to me.
“Auntie Christa,” she calls, already scrambling to her feet. “You have to come too.”
I lift my hands from the keyboard. “I can’t. I’m working.”
She hops up from the floor and runs over, skidding to a stop by the kitchen island, craning her neck to look up at me on the stool. “You can work later.”
“I really can’t,” I say gently. “I have to finish this.”
She clasps her hands together, eyes enormous. “Please.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s just Lucy, hopeful and entirely confident that persistence is a valid strategy.
I glance at my laptop. Then at her. Then, against my better judgement, at Geoff.
He doesn’t say a word. Just watches, mouth twitching, knowing exactly how this ends.
“I’ll only stay for a minute,” I say.
“Yes!” she exclaims and darts back to the coffee table, rummages in her little backpack, then charges back over with treasures.
“This is for you,” she says solemnly, holding up a plastic pink necklace and another tiara, this one missing at least one jewel. “Because you’re a princess too.”
“I am,” I agree, because I respect the rules of the kingdom.
I carefully shut my laptop and slide off the stool, then lower myself onto the sofa instead of the floor because I am pregnant and not made of rubber.
Lucy immediately scampers back to her seat, satisfied. Geoff shifts the coffee table a little closer without comment, making space for me like it’s instinct rather than thought.
I put the tiara on. The necklace too. There is no half-arsing this.
Geoff looks between us, cape pooled around his knees, crumbs on his T-shirt, and laughs softly. Not teasing. Just… content.
Lucy pushes a plate towards me with great ceremony.
I sit there, plastic jewellery digging into my collarbone, fairy cake in hand, watching the two of them together, and that warm feeling spreads again.
Lucy looks between Geoff and me, eyes bright with the sort of curiosity that never comes without consequences.
“So,” she says, drawing the word out. “What’s the baby called?”
Geoff and I glance at each other.
“We don’t know yet,” he says.
“No name,” I add. “Not yet.”
Lucy frowns. “But she’s coming soon.”
“Yes,” Geoff agrees. “But we have a little time left.”
Lucy leans back, hands on her knees, thinking hard. I can almost hear the gears turning.
“Okay,” she says finally. “I have ideas.”
“Let's hear them,” I say.
She counts on her fingers. “Princess Strawberry.”
Geoff nods solemnly. “Strong start.”
“Rainbow Unicorn,” Lucy continues.
I tilt my head. “That’s more of a double-barrelled situation.”
“And,” she adds, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal a state secret, “Cupcake.”
Geoff presses a hand to his mouth. “That one feels… personal.”
Lucy beams. “Because she’s sweet.”
“That is a compelling argument,” I admit.
She looks at me seriously. “You have to choose one.”
“We might need to think about it,” I say gently.
Lucy sighs, the weight of responsibility heavy on her small shoulders. “Fine. But not Princess Sparkle. That one is mine.”
Geoff laughs, tipping back onto his hands. “Understood.”
Lucy sips more tea, satisfied that the matter is at least temporarily handled.
I take another bite of fairy cake and glance at Geoff. He catches my eye, still smiling, still completely at ease with a tiara slipping down his forehead.
I think, again, how lucky our daughter already is.
Even without a name.