CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Leanne
My fingers tap the side of my phone as I stare at the blinking curser.
I’ve typed and deleted more than a hundred texts to Bryce in the past three days.
The simplest ones being plain “thank you for the groceries,” with others being elaborate and filled with more words than is appropriate for a text message.
But each one has faced the dreaded backspace button, and I continue to stare at this blank thread with trepidation. There’s still so much that needs to be said, but I’m entirely unsure where to start.
So instead of calling him, I’ve let the busyness of catching up on last week’s work distract me. Considering I still look and feel like shit, no one in the office questioned my excuse of having the flu. At least I’m no longer throwing up all the time.
When I still wasn’t better by Sunday afternoon, I gave in and texted Rebecca.
She called in a prescription for Zofran, and within an hour, I was able to eat a full meal.
I made an appointment with her office first thing yesterday morning so she wouldn’t have to worry about giving prescription medications to someone who wasn’t a patient, even if she seemed unconcerned about doing so.
They were able to squeeze me into their schedule for next Friday for my ten-week appointment. The pregnancy weeks versus weeks since conception thing still throws me off, but both Rebecca’s office and the app I downloaded say I’m eight weeks and three days along… and I’m due on April 30th.
I click away from my messages and into the new pregnancy app instead.
On the screen is a picture of a raspberry.
I’ve already read everything it has to say about week eight, and week nine too.
My bedside table is littered with books about pregnancy I got at a secondhand shop on my lunch break yesterday.
The shock is finally wearing off and the nerves about how much I don’t know are taking over.
Hence the list of questions I’ve been compiling in my Notes app, ready to unload on the doctor.
Rebecca seemed to understand my need to be sure everything is okay, even if she doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for me to believe I’m actually pregnant. Unless Bryce already told her?
Of course, I could find out if he did… by calling him like he asked me to. But I’ve been cowardly avoiding everyone while I bury myself in work.
As if on cue, a text from my mom pops up on the screen.
Mom
How are you feeling? We missed you at dinner on Sunday.
The missed calls from her and my sisters are piling up, and I should probably make contact soon or they’ll be worried I’ve died.
Me
I’m doing better. Flu seems to have passed. Just trying to get caught up on work.
Mom
Try not to work too hard. You’ll make yourself sick again. See you this weekend?
Our Sunday dinners used to be a highlight of my week.
I love my parents and my sisters, but after Craig and I broke up and everything centered around Jenna’s wedding, the dinners became less enjoyable.
It’s my fault. I should’ve told them everything, but it feels like it’s been too long for it to matter at this point.
Anyway, I have bigger news to tell them now, and as I’ve barely wrapped my own head around it, I’m playing the avoidance game.
Me
We’ll see. I might have to work this weekend.
My phone chimes again, but I shove it into my hoodie pocket without looking at it.
With a pronounced exhale, I push away from the computer in my office and feel the stretch in my legs.
I got home from work an hour ago, but a call from my boss had me rushing to reply to an email from one of our vendors.
With that “emergency” dealt with, I’m done for the night and should probably figure out what I want to eat.
With the Zofran, eating has returned to normal, though I’m still gun shy to eat anything outside the beige food groups.
Looking over the contents of my fridge, my hand wanders across my stomach. “What do you feel like tonight?”
As each day passes, I find myself talking aloud with increasing frequency—to the tiny human growing in there. I did it in front of my boss earlier today and had to play off the random comment as a bad joke.
I grab everything I need for grilled cheese because it’s low effort. It won’t be as delicious as what I could get from my favorite local restaurant, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I’m about to put butter in the pan when my phone vibrates on the counter. Reaching for it, I see Bryce’s name across the top and a jolt runs through me. I drop the spatula in my hand with a clatter on the floor and stare at his name until right before I’m sure it will go to voicemail.
I swipe the screen just in time. “Hello.”
“Leanne.”
I can practically feel his deep voice as it rumbles against my ear. There’s no biting irritation or frustration or any of the myriad of emotions I’ve come to expect in his tone.
“Hey. Hi. Um…” I can’t sort out the jumble of words in my brain.
“I hope it’s okay that I called. I just—”
“It’s good… that you called. I’m sorry I didn’t, it’s been…” I hesitate and toy with my watch, knowing I don’t have a good excuse for my radio silence.
“Could I bring you dinner?” he asks in a rush, like he’s been holding the words in and couldn’t stop the flow for another second. “If you’re feeling up to it. I’m in town.”
Why is this man so thoughtful? I’m not sure I deserve it when I’ve been so distant with him. I guess we do need to talk though, so I throw him a bone.
If I can make one grilled cheese, I can make two, right? “I was craving grilled cheese and was about to—”
He interrupts my offer to ask, “Have you ever had the grilled cheese from Whiskey Ditch?”
I smile to myself. Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought. “It’s my favorite actually.”
“What if I pick up a couple and bring them there? Would that work? I don’t want to impose, but I’d really like to see you.”
His sincerity is baffling.
This is a completely different man than the one I dealt with for all those months.
This man more closely resembles the one I’d lain with in that tent.
The observant one. The attentive one. The considerate one.
I think I liked that man… even if I said I didn’t.
And that scares me more than being pregnant does, because the last man I liked—and eventually loved—broke not only my heart but my spirit.
My own chaotic emotions aside, I can’t keep putting this off… and I want Whiskey Ditch. So, without overthinking the fluttery sensation in my stomach and the pounding of my pulse under my skin, I say, “I’d love that,” and find that I mean it.
Thirty minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in a pair of joggers with a long-sleeve tee, feeling a million times better than I have all day. And the prospect of this grilled cheese has me more excited than any sandwich should.
It’s definitely only the sandwich I’m excited about.
It has nothing to do with the burly, brusque, and undeniably attractive man delivering it.
I’m also telling myself that shaving my legs was for my own benefit.
They’re not even showing; it was just for me, because I hadn’t done it in a while. That’s all.
The doorbell rings and my heart rate picks up to a gallop. I press my hand to my chest and take a deep breath.
It’s only dinner.
With the father of my child.
A child I’m very much excited about… but how is he feeling about all of this? I never even bothered to ask.
I sigh and pull open the door. He’s facing away, looking up and down the street, but then he turns and I take in the whole picture. His beard is groomed over his strong jaw and his lips pull up at the corners when he sees me. There are soft lines around the corners of his eyes too.
He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans over boots, but these aren’t covered in dirt or scuffs like the work boots he wore at the ranch. These are nice boots… Like, going out boots. And with his jeans, he’s wearing a tan Carhartt jacket layered over a blue waffle knit Henley.
He looks… good. Good enough to have memories of our night together flashing through my mind. But that can’t happen. Not again.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes, opening the door wider. “Hi. Come on in.”
He looks dressed for a date, and I’m in loungewear.
“Thanks,” he says, toeing his boots off before walking straight for my kitchen. Over his shoulder, he says, “And thank you for letting me come.”
I approach from behind, trying not to focus too much on how his back muscles shift under his shirt as he removes his jacket and lays it on the counter beside the takeout containers.
“Thank you for bringing dinner,” I respond, and hope he doesn’t hear the acute nervousness I’m trying to hide.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His gaze rakes over my body, but not in the way mine did to his a moment ago. He’s checking to see how I’m doing—if I’m really okay.
“Much better, thanks to Rebecca and anti-nausea meds,” I admit, realizing he’s had no insight to the state of my health for three days.
He nods and steps forward with a relieved smile.
I meet his eyes and decide to make the first move—going in for a quick hug.
But he shifts at that exact moment, aiming for my cheek, I think, and we meet in the middle with my mouth on his.
One of my hands lands on his biceps and the other on his chest, while his hand skims my waist. It’s only a split second, but the zing of awareness has me catching my breath.
He steps back, a flush rising beneath his beard, and his eyes go comically wide. “I’m sorry. I was going to kiss your cheek. I—”
Tension crackles between us and I pull my hands away from his body like they’ve been burned. “It’s okay. I thought it was going to be a hug.”
That was not a hug. It may have barely counted as a kiss, but it was a kiss, and my lips are still tingling from the contact. I fight the urge to touch them, looking instead at my feet to avoid his gaze.
After another beat of sticky silence, he says, “So, dinner?”
“Right. Yes. Dinner.” I follow the heavenly smell wafting from the containers on the counter and sidestep him to open one.
The gooey cheese melting between the halves of the sandwich has my mouth watering.
I transfer everything to plates as Bryce moves around the kitchen behind me, opening and closing cabinets.
I look over my shoulder and raise an eyebrow in his direction.
“Do you have wineglasses?” At my even more puzzled expression, followed by me looking down at my nonexistent pregnant belly, he laughs. “I brought a bottle of sparkling apple cider…” he says, and palms the back of his neck. “And now I’m feeling kind of stupid about it.”
“No, don’t,” I insist, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. “They’re in the cabinet over there.” I point to the hutch by the dining table.
“Thanks.” He moves to the cabinet and pulls out two glasses, promptly filling them from the bottle of Martinelli’s—something I haven’t had in a very long time, though it was present at every holiday dinner in my youth.
When I join him with our plates, he watches to see where I’ll sit—at the head of the table—then takes the seat directly to my right.
He takes a bite of his sandwich at the same moment I do, and our twin moans of pleasure have me covering my mouth with my hand to avoid accidentally spitting it out as I laugh.
The next thirty minutes feel very much like a first date, with all the surface-level questions we’ve never had the chance to ask each other.
Favorite color: forest green for him, burnt orange for me.
Favorite ice cream: butter pecan for him, cherry garcia for me.
Where we went to college, what we wanted to be when we grew up, do we like our jobs, how I’m feeling now that I’m not getting sick all the time.
It’s comfortable, even if we are skirting all the big questions—there will be plenty of time for those later.
I look at my empty plate and sigh. “This was incredible. Exactly what I was craving.” My hands fall to my stomach and rest there in a way that feels all too natural.
His gaze tracks the movement and his smile widens. I’m not sure I’ve seen him smile this way before and I wish I could capture a picture of it. It brightens everything about him, especially his eyes.
“I’m glad I could be of service,” he jokes with a mock bow.
Then his face grows more serious and his throat bobs on a swallow.
The mood in the room instantly feels weightier with the shift in his demeanor.
His gaze holds mine before he says, “I really want to be here for you, Leanne. If you’ll let me…
I’d like to be part of this.” His voice is steady and earnest. The taunting edge that used to be between us, cutting hard lines into all our interactions, is a distant memory. “If you’re in, blondie… I’m in.”
His gaze bounces again to where my hands cover my stomach.
I see deep sincerity etched in the lines of his face and it’s enough to make me believe him, to quiet the insecurities telling me to be cautious.
I’m stunned at the overwhelming sense of relief that washes over me, and my eyes prick with tears before I sniff them back, willing the stinging at the back of my throat to subside.
I might not know Bryce well, and we still have so much to figure out, but I won’t have to do this alone—and it wasn’t until he said those words that I realized how afraid I was that I would have to.
“I’m in,” I say in return, and I think I see the same relief echoed in his features.