18. Chapter 18
T oday has been a whirlwind. My body screams. Ankles swollen to the size of softballs. Back aching like I’ve been hit by a semi. The brain fog is so thick, I’m convinced I’ve misplaced half my memory.
But despite it all, I’m floating on a lemon-sugar high.
Tonight’s my last night shift before switching to days once Jellybean arrives, and my team of coworkers and supervisors surprised me with a little party.
Call it a final shift send-off, a mini baby shower—whatever it was, it was thoughtful and special, especially since I’ve only been at the call center for seven months.
The cubicle I sit in has pink and yellow streamers hanging from the walls.
Inside the breakroom was a table decorated with pink and yellow balloons, a sign taped to the wall, saying ‘Oh, baby,’ a few gift bags next to an assortment of lemon-flavored treats.
I guess my snacking while on the job wasn’t as inconspicuous as I thought.
Lemon cookies. Lemon bars. Lemon cupcakes.
Lemonhead candies. Lemon Starburst. It’s almost as if an email was sent around, and the only thing they knew about me was that I liked lemon-flavored food.
I didn’t expect the tears to come. But of course they did. One minute, I was laughing as my supervisor joked about everyone taking the lemon theme literally, and the next, I was ugly-crying with gratitude, mouth full of a lemon cookie.
But as I thanked them, my heart was full of something else. It felt dangerously close to being seen.
Not pity for having a baby on my own. But seen for the person I am.
Now, as I drive through the inky midnight streets toward home, I should be exhausted. And I am, but this time, I’m buzzing too.
How am I closing this chapter of my life? It feels like yesterday I was interviewing and disclosing my pregnancy. I would need to find something to help accommodate the university’s daycare program since I don’t have any other help.
It doesn’t feel real that, in just a few weeks, I’ll be someone’s mother.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
There’s still so much to do in so little time.
Things I should’ve done weeks ago, but alas, pregnancy has only allowed me to embrace my procrastination side.
A car seat is sitting on the floor of my closet.
Grant helped me put together the crib my aunt sent.
Brynn said she’d send some of Cleo’s clothes she’s outgrown, which will help as long as she doesn’t send her entire wardrobe.
Cleo Boyd is one spoiled little princess, and if I received half the things the girl owns, I wouldn’t be able to fit them in my closet.
Still, the essentials remain unchecked: bottles, diapers, wipes.
I should start a list , I think, mentally face-palming.
Thank god for that impromptu Target trip with Grant—at least I have a handful of girl clothing, burp cloths, and swaddles.
What even is my life?
Then it hits me— Grant .
Memories of this morning assault my mind.
His hand gripped the back of my neck as he crashed his mouth into mine.
The way our bodies sagged in relief.
Reaching for my hand as he practically pulled me to his bedroom.
Telling me to strip for him before he played with my tender breasts and overly sensitive nipples.
The way broody, grumpy Grant Campbell dropped to his knees and devoured me like a starving man having his first taste of food.
Demanding I get on all fours.
My cheeks heat as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The desire sparks as moisture builds between my thighs. I cannot believe I admitted how hard up I was. Hell, I practically begged him to take the edge off. I groan, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel at the red light.
And boy, did he.
A shiver dances down my spine at the reminder.
The entire drive to the apartment complex is on autopilot, still stuck in my head. Parking in the same spot I always do, I gather my things—my tote, the leftover lemon treats, and a few small gift bags from work.
I’m exhausted and nearly out of breath by the time I make it to the second floor. Juggling everything, I fumble with the key, trying not to drop the goodies. Finally, the lock gives way, and I let out a sigh of relief as I shove the door open with my hip, pushing into the apartment.
I’m expecting a dark apartment with only the microwave light on. But instead, it’s dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp, and the flashing of the TV surprises me.
And then I see it. A flash of movement.
My heart leaps to my throat as a shadow cuts across the living room.
A small screech leaves my lips as I nearly drop the cupcakes.
Grant turns from where he was pacing across the room in erratic strides, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair, jaw tense.
His hair is messy, sticking up in different directions as if he’s been running his fingers through it all night.
His eyes snap to mine the second the door opens wider. “Hey—”
“Shit, Grant,” I gasp, trying to calm my racing heart. “You scared the hell out of me.”
For a split second, our eyes lock, and everything else fades away.
Heat rushes up my neck as his voice brings me back to the present.
“Sorry, Peach.” He flinches, face sincere. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It-it’s fine,” I stutter, my heart still slamming into my ribs as I kick the door shut with my foot. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I shift on my feet as he stands there—silent, unmoving—watching me.
The air grows heavy with the kind of silence that makes my nerves spark.
Moving deeper into the apartment, I unload my bags onto the island and drop my tote onto a barstool.
The kitchen is spotless—sparkling, even.
We keep things tidy, but it hasn’t been this clean since I moved in over a month ago, when Grant’s nerves drove him to scrub every surface.
My cheeks flush again, but for a different reason this time. I’m confused, and more than a little concerned. There’s a flicker in his expression that knocks the breath right out of me.
Something’s wrong.
I can feel it.
Placing my hands on the counter, arms outstretched, I suck in a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”
The pregnant pause has me glancing up. Grant gestures to the couch. “Can we sit? Please?”
I hesitate, eyebrows pinching. The fun energy I left work with evaporates into the awkward space between us. I take slow, tentative steps to the couch and sit in the corner of the sectional. Reaching for a throw pillow, I tuck it onto my lap. My fingers trace the pattern, grounding me.
Grant doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he paces again. Hands on his hips, brows tight. “I need to tell you something...” He pauses, his eyes locking onto mine. “But I need you to… Don’t freak out, okay?”
Oh god.
My stomach drops as I shift nervously on the cushion. “You’re starting to freak me out, Grant.”
He finally stops pacing, but stays on the other side of the coffee table, in the space between the table and the TV stand. With a deep inhale, he blurts the one thing I never saw coming.
“I told the coaching staff we’re married.”
I stare at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.
Then I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“What did you say?” I ask on a breath.
“I told them you’re my wife.” Yeah, that’s what I thought he said.
“I’m sorry, you—” I shake my head, a bitter laugh slipping before I can stop it. “Is this a joke?”
He shakes his head as I try to stand. My belly gets in the way, slowing my motion to the point of defeat.
Instead, I lean back deeper into the cushion, tossing the throw pillow aside.
One hand rubs my belly in the soothing motion I’ve adapted whenever I feel overwhelmed, while the other covers my mouth.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, drowning out the world. Not that there’s much else to hear—Grant is frozen in place, letting me process.
Process. I chuckle to myself. It seems like that’s all I ever do. The world tilts on its axis, throwing me a new curveball, and I’m stuck processing the turn of events.
Savannah Holycross: Queen of Processing.
“Are you out of your damn mind, Grant? I’m serious. Have you lost it?” Panic rises, hitting me harder with each wave.
He raises his hands in defense. “Let me explain.”
I give him a go ahead gesture, and he exhales deeply.
“The entire offensive staff was in a meeting to discuss our first game,” he begins. “Coach Martinez asked if there were any players he should be keeping a close eye on. No one mentioned a player, but someone brought up a rumor about a coach living with a student.”
“Fucking Tierney,” I mumble under my breath.
Grant’s eyebrow raises. I shake my head, answering the silent question. “I ran into Tierney Turner on campus the other day when I had to pick up my books. It might have slipped out that I was living with you. I knew she’d run with the news.”
I rub a hand down my face as Grant threads one through his hair.
“That explains how Danners knew.” He pauses with a deep breath.
“When he dropped the bomb in the meeting, he never mentioned my name, but the entire time he was telling the coaches the rumor, his eyes never left mine. He was confessing it was me without uttering my name. So, when some of the coaches started grumbling about misconduct, putting the program at risk, and how a student was being taken advantage of…I panicked.”
I scoff. “You didn’t think lying about marrying me would do exactly that?”
“I didn’t think at all!” he explodes, throwing his arms around. My eyes widen at the outburst, not in fear, but because I’ve never heard this side of Grant. In a fraction of a second, he drops his voice. “I didn’t think, Savannah, because I was scared.”