68. Kate
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Kate
May
I stood at the mirror, smoothing the black cotton of my dress over my gigantic bump. Thirty-six weeks. Still flying.
The midwife and consultant had given me the green light and signed off the papers. No signs of anything imminent, everything looking strong. No complications. Just constant peeing and an alarming addiction to pretzels.
Jordan was more nervous about the idea than I was, but I’d promised him: just Rome, then home to wait. His medical team had even linked up with the local maternity hospital, just in case.
The house felt calm again. Even after the chaos a few weeks ago when my name had been dragged through headlines.
An experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
For days, I’d barely been able to lift my head, convinced the world believed every word of it.
But Jordan hadn’t left my side until he had to leave for America.
The lawyers had done their job. The article was gone; a settlement had been reached.
And slowly, I’d remembered how to breathe again.
Now, I wasn’t na?ve enough to think it was over. That kind of noise never really went away. But this morning, with Rome ahead of us, I wanted to believe we’d weathered the worst of it.
In the mirror, Jordan appeared behind me freshly showered, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers.
He watched me for a moment as though he were admiring the view. “God, you’re beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re biased; you have to say that.”
“I am. But I’m right.”
He walked over and kissed my shoulder, his warm lips against skin.
“You sure you’re okay with this trip?” he asked. “You don’t have to go.”
“I want to,” I cut in gently. “It’s only a few days. Then I’m home, feet up, nesting like a lunatic. I missed you too much last time.” While he left for the States, I’d hidden, licking my wounds while he faced the cameras alone. But not this time. Rome felt different. We felt different.
He smiled, with a warm, protective hand coming to rest on my belly, rubbing gently over the stretch of cotton.
“He’ll love Rome.”
“I’ll be honest, I’m only coming for the gelato,” I said.
He grinned.
My suitcase was packed. So was my hospital bag, just in case. I wasn’t an idiot. I’d tucked it into the car, wedged behind the snacks and the overpriced pillow that was currently saving my hips.
We were heading to the airport within the hour. Jordan had a few things lined up: press, light training, sponsor stuff. He was locked in as usual, but more relaxed this time. Entirely focused, but had a glow to him in that quiet way he got when he knew he was ready.
And I’d be there. Front row. Huge bump. Big sunglasses. Cheering on my man in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
Just one last trip before we settled in to wait.
******
“Bloody hell, do you need a warning sign for the size of that?” Chris whistled when he saw me.
I raised a brow. “Hilarious. Really.”
Maggie smacked his arm. “Don’t listen to him. You look amazing. Honestly nauseatingly so.”
I laughed, letting her hug me carefully. Chris was already glancing at his watch.
“Right, I’d better head down. Jordan’s waiting down at the training court. Try not to let Maggie spoil you too much while I’m gone.” He winked before striding off, leaving us in his dust.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Honestly. Like he’s the one playing the final.”
We were staying at the same hotel as Chris and Maggie. She’d flown in last night to join him for the last stretch of the tournament, and had insisted on taking me out for lunch to catch up. I wasn’t about to say no to pasta and shade.
“So,” she said as we settled into our seats at a little tucked-away trattoria, “how’s the new house? I can’t wait to visit in July.”
“Oh, it’s perfect. Quiet, more space. Close to Gwen, which was half the point. You’ll have to bring Archie over to meet the baby.”
“I can’t believe he’s almost here.” She smiled, eyes softening. “Next time I’m in London, I’ll actually be holding him.”
“I know.”
I exhaled, shifting in my seat. It was a warm afternoon, and even in the shade with an iced tea in hand, my body felt heavy. Slower.
Maggie clocked it immediately.
“You okay? You look…uncomfortable.”
“Oh, I am,” I said, brushing a hand across the top of my bump. “He’s huge. I’m small. This is what I get for letting a six-foot-two Aussie tennis player knock me up.”
We both laughed.
The place was quiet, tucked off a cobbled side street, full of soft light, chatter, and the faint clink of glasses.
It was the kind of lazy Roman afternoon you didn’t want to end.
Full of life, yet somehow completely still.
The sort of moment that begged for an Aperol spritz but pregnancy meant that I was the designated dreamer for now.
“He’s doing amazing,” Maggie said, leaning in. “They’re tipping him for a stormer of a season.”
“He’s on fire,” I agreed. “I don’t know what’s changed, but since Melbourne, he’s unbeaten.”
Maggie tilted her head.
“Maybe give yourself a little credit?” she said. “He’s got fire in him again. Two reasons to prove himself now.”
That got me. My eyes prickled, just a little. I gave her a grateful smile.
I’d never been prouder of him. Not just because he was winning, but because he was playing like he believed he could. That belief had been missing for a while, and the last few of months had knocked the wind out of him.
Just then, I felt a presence behind me. Maggie’s gaze flicked up, and I turned to see a young girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty, long dark hair, hovering awkwardly a few feet away.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice nervous, “but…are you Jordan Taylor’s fiancée?”
Oh God.
I gave her a sheepish smile. “Um…yeah. That’s me.”
Maggie’s grin widened across the table.
“Oh my God.” The girl beamed. “My mum and I love you. We always look out for what you’re wearing during his matches. You looked stunning at the Aussie Open. Could I grab a photo? My mum will absolutely lose her mind.”
My cheeks flushed. I tucked my hair behind my ear and nodded. “Of course.”
Maggie stood up and offered to take it. The girl crouched beside me, careful not to bump the bump, and I smiled for the photo, doing my best not to look like I wanted to melt into the pavement.
“Thank you so much,” the girl gushed. “Good luck for the final, and for the baby!”
“Thanks,” I managed with a genuine smile.
As she walked off, Maggie sat back down and handed me my iced tea.
“See,” she said, smug, “people absolutely love you; how does it feel to be an international style icon?”
I rolled my eyes. “Mortifying. Please don’t.”
She clinked her glass against mine.
“You’re handling it like a pro, Kate. Really. Even when you’re clearly over it.”
I smiled. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be comfortable with it, the attention, the scrutiny, but moments like this made it a little easier. A little funnier.
“I’ll stick to being your obscure pregnant friend with a thing for pretzels and lemon gelato, thanks.”
“To one last match,” Maggie said, raising her drink.
“To one last match,” I echoed.
Then home. Then nappies. Then everything.