“I’m not pregnant. I can’t be,” I insist. My arm thingy birth control can’t fail me! Could it?!
Extra slowly, he rakes his gaze over my body, running it from the top of my head to my ponytail, the swell of my breasts under my comfortable sky-blue tank top, my tight pink jeans, and slowly back up, his expression unreadable.
“What? Do you think I am?” I ask in disbelief, and before he can answer, I add, “Remy, a baby would be very scary right now.”
He scoffs. “Who’s scared of a baby?”
“I am. You adorable man. Me.”
He chucks my chin and smirks. “Maybe I’ll take it if it looks like you.”
“You won’t take shit because there’s nothing to take!” He observes me for a couple of heartbeats, and I vow he looks kind of . . .
“You look smug, don’t you,” I accuse, hardly believing what I’m seeing.
He lifts one sleek black eyebrow.
“You do. You look smug thinking you got me pregnant when my birth control says it’s near impossible.”
He laughs in that deep, throaty way of his that makes my skin come alive and all the little hairs on my arms rise, then he kisses my lips in that boyfriend way of his where the kiss isn’t meant to arouse us—but just to express some sort of connection—then he surveys me with those adorable black eyes that are now shining very, very much in entertainment.
“I’d rather you have a baby of mine in you than be sick with his poison,” he half whispers, half growls.
“Neither is the case,” I assure. And yet, why am I holding a two-week puke-fest?
Shit.
Fuck.
Shitfuck!
He flattens me lightly to the hardness of his chest and rubs my back, quickly, up and down, then tells me quietly, his soft words packed with warning, “I’m going to tuck you in bed when we get to the hotel, and you’re not moving from it. I don’t care what’s wrong. You’re not moving from that bed until somebody looks at you and tells me you’re going to be all right.”
“Ha! There’s no way I’m staying in bed all day, not even if I feel bad. I’ve never missed a day of work in my life.”
He kisses my ear again in that boyfriend way I’m starting to like so much. “Then you haven’t lived properly.”
? ? ?
SO I’M NOT only missing work and living on the edge now, but I just peed on a stick.
Pete got us an appointment with an experienced male gynecologist for tomorrow, and Remington is growing impatient; he even forgave Pete the male-doctor part, but he won’t wait that long to know. Of course, Mr. Speedy wouldn’t wait. I’ve told him a thousand times I am not pregnant, and the more I say I am not, the more smug he looks. Now, he seems more excited about me peeing on a stick than I am.
When I come out of the bathroom wearing his black T-shirt, I find him shadowboxing in the room.
I watch from the threshold, admiring his swings. He knows exactly where his fist goes, and even when he gives the impression of relaxation, I know the power behind each swing is equal to a bulldozer.
Leaning on the doorframe, the athlete in me can’t help but admire the athlete in him. I’ve known thousands of sportsmen in my life. But I have never, ever met anyone like him. His speed. Agility. How he ducks. Swings. The way he fights seems to be instinctive, and yet at the same time, I can also see in both his training regimen and fights that his head is always in the game.
I think about my parents for a moment. They know I’m on tour working, though they have no idea how deeply I’ve involved myself with the man who hired me. The day I left Seattle, my main concern was whether or not Remington would take me back. I didn’t even consider telling my parents that I was in love. That I met the guy—the one I never thought I’d find. The one that made me fall harder than I ever thought I could fall. I know that they trust me to be levelheaded. Throughout the years, I’ve proven to be the most responsible of their offspring, but if this test is positive . . . Ohmigod, if it’s positive, it will scream “reckless!” all over the place.
My god, what if I am pregnant? And a little baby Tate comes into my life like Remington did, taking it over, telling me, “You know what? You might not know you need me, want me, and will damn well love me, but here I am.”
“You check yet?”
His voice jerks me back to awareness. My stomach tangles from the nerves as I stare at him. He’s been running his fingers through his hair, and every time he does that, he seems to dishevel it even more. His eyes are dark, but the light coming in from the sunset illuminates the tiny blue flecks in his dark eyes. He looks warm and sporty in his sweatpants and hoodie—boyish—and the thought of carrying his baby makes me feel hot and restless and very, very unprepared.
“Brooke?” he softly insists.
My stomach turns once more. A part of me is curious, and another part doesn’t want to know and all it wants is to keep the status quo. Just us. Remy and Brooke.