He slows down and leans in to kiss me.
“You’re not done? Are you?”
He chuckles against my lips. “Just taking a little break.”
He slowly pulls out of me, then slowly glides back in.
“You’re so freaking hard.”
I push my arms up, because I want—no, I need—him to go faster, but he holds firm, still toying with me.
Finally, he has me exactly where he wants me, begging.
“Aiden, please.”
He slams into me, lifting my body up off the bed with every thrust, faster and faster, until I’m wrapped in the throes of ecstasy and he’s collapsed on top of me.
He kisses my nose. “I missed you too, in case you couldn’t tell.”
I give him another kiss. “We should probably go check on our guests.”
“I suppose you’re right, although I bet they could fend for themselves.”
Aiden pops in the shower and I get in with him.
He starts soaping up my body.
“Can I have a rain check on that?” I ask. “I’ve got to get some food. I’m starting to feel sick.”
I quickly dry off, put my clothes back on, and run into the kitchen and grab an apple off the counter. Then I run back to the bathroom because I have to pee.
When I wipe, it’s pink.
“Ohmigawd! Aiden! I’m bleeding!” I say, instantly panicked.
He jumps out of the shower and I show him the toilet paper.
“Aiden, did we do it too hard? Am I having a miscarriage? What are we going to do?”
He stands naked, dripping in front of me. “Is that it?”
“Is what it?”
“Like, that’s barely pink. It doesn’t really look like blood.”
I stay sitting on the toilet and start crying.
Aiden bends down next to me. “Baby, it’s okay. Whatever happens is okay. We talked about that, right?”
I shake my head. “No, I lied. It’s not okay!”
“Keatyn, you need to calm down. Why don’t you wipe again and see if it’s gotten better or worse. I read that a miscarriage is like getting your period. There’s a lot of cramping and blood. Are you cramping?”
“Maybe! I don’t know!”
He grabs my chin. “Look at me. Do you have cramps?”
I take a deep breath. “No.”
“Wipe, please.”
“I’m scared to.”
He hands me a wad of toilet paper. I close my eyes and wipe.
“I can’t look.”
“It’s not pink, baby. You’re not bleeding.”
I open my eyes, not believing him and expecting to see a river of blood. But the paper is white.
I cover my eyes with my hands.
Aiden wraps a towel around his waist, types in his phone, and then he reads from it.
“It says that spotting after sex is normal during your first trimester. It says that your cervix—that’s what the baby comes out of, right?—is sensitive. It says up to thirty percent of women have some bleeding in early pregnancy and half of them don’t have miscarriages.”
“So, if I’m in the thirty percent, my odds are fifty-fifty?”
“I don’t think that would really qualify as bleeding. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
I stand up, zip my pants, and flush.
“Aiden?”
“What, baby?” he says, sliding his hand across my face.
“It just got real.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was excited to be pregnant, but other than some vague flu-like symptoms and the ability to smell a cheeseburger from two miles away, it didn’t feel real. It does now, and I realize just how much I want to have our baby.”
“And you will, don’t worry. Speaking of that, we need to start thinking up names. I actually have an idea.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I think we should name the baby Monroe.”
Tears fill my eyes again.
“My fake last name? If it weren’t for me almost being kidnapped by the stalker, I never would have went to boarding school.”
“Or met me.”
“I’m glad I met you. And I don’t know if I ever told you this, but my mom chose that name because it was my great grandma’s maiden name.”
“That makes it even better,” he says. “Monroe Arrington. What do you think?”
“It would work for a boy or a girl.” I kiss him. “I love it, Aiden. It’s perfect.”
It’s late and I’m sitting on the back porch drinking lemonade with Grandma, Grandpa, and Aiden. Knox is helping Dawson and Dallas put the kids to bed with a crazy bedtime story. Logan and Maggie left, since they have a busy day at the winery tomorrow.
“So, Hotshot,” Grandpa says to me. “We have some news. Me and Ma are homeless.”
“What?”
“We sold the ranch, dear,” Grandma clarifies.
“Better than, We bought the farm,” Grandpa says, slapping his leg with laughter.
“Grandpa, don't joke about dying. I hate that. And why did you sell the ranch? You love it there.”
“I’ve decided, after careful consideration,” he leans over and whispers to me, “and after Ma hit me over the head with a frying pan and knocked some sense into me—”