Chapter Six

"Hey, babe," Ryan calls, making me jump as I come in through the back door that leads into the kitchen.

"Jeez, Ryan! You almost scared me to death. What are you doing here?"

I kick off my sandy shoes. I walked back home via the beach—one of the perks of having bought a house that's conveniently located right next to my bestie.

He crosses to me, then extends a hand. "Ryan Hunter. I live here. I believe we've met before."

"My husband the clown. I just meant that you're supposed to be in San Diego. And you're usually gone by now, anyway." Nikki apparently tried to get me up at eight, but I was having none of it. Now it's coming on eleven, and I have no memory of even halfway waking up, much less telling her that our continuing friendship was directly tied to her letting me get at least two more hours sleep.

I would've call her on her bullshit, except that really does sound like me.

Ryan moves to our coffee corner. "San Diego got canceled, and I had paperwork to take care of. Figured I'd have a lazy morning. See my wife."

"Oh. Great."

His brows rise, and I force a smile. Normally, I'd already be trying to get him in bed. Because that's my idea of how to pass a lazy morning. Today, I'm off-kilter. I thought I'd have the house to myself. To think about how to tell him.

And to figure out why I'm not even remotely ready to tell him this thing that he's going to think is such good news. And, I tell myself sternly, that I think is good news, too.

As I take a seat at the kitchen island, he grabs two mugs, fills them, and puts one in front of me. I push it a few inches away so as to not breathe in the aroma and barf all over the island.

He stares at me for what feels like a beat too long, and I'm certain he's figured it out, and any minute he's going to ask me why I'm keeping my secret. And what the hell am I supposed to say then?

Stop it.

I follow my own order, forcing myself to just sit there, calmly not drinking coffee as he stands on the other side of the island, sipping away at his. I wait for him to ask me what's wrong.

He doesn't.

I clear my throat, unnerved by what feels to me like a very uncomfortable silence. "So, um, get a lot done? Paperwork, I mean." I'm fidgeting with my fingers and so I lift the coffee, if for no other reason than that I can hold tight to the mug.

"Enough."

"That's good." The whole conversation seems off, but I figure that's just my perception because, oh, I'm slightly knocked up and not ready to tell my husband.

When Ryan comes around the island to sit on the stool next to mine, I expect him to kiss me. He doesn't. He's just sitting, sipping his coffee as I fight the horrible, twisty something's off feeling that's still winding its way through my gut.

Speaking of guts…

I push the coffee away, unable to take the scent of it any longer. I realize right away how big a mistake that is—I never say no to coffee unless someone else is offering booze—but I don't think he's noticed that at all. Instead, he's looking at me with the kind of intense expression I haven't seen since before we got married. Back when I had a habit of running scared despite wanting him so very, very badly.

I haven't run in a long time, though, which means that I have no idea what that expression is for. But while I might be wildly curious, I know better than to ask.

"—chip," he says, and I sit up straighter, realizing I'd gotten completely lost in my thoughts.

"Sorry. What?"

"I said I'm going to get a muffin. Do you want one? They're chocolate chip."

My stomach growls happily. Apparently, the pregnancy gods like chocolate. "Yeah. That sounds great."

He nods, then goes to the cabinet and pulls out a box of bakery muffins I didn't even know we had. When he brings them back, I anticipate him standing behind me in that way he has of easing up close, then brushing a kiss on the back of my neck. Sweetly gentle and oh-so sexy.

But he goes straight to his stool and puts the box between us.

Needless to say, I'm downright paranoid now. I'm about to suck it up and ask what the fuck is wrong when he puts his hand over mine. "You probably shouldn't have stayed over at Nikki's last night."

"Oh." I frown. "Why not?"

He brushes my cheek. "Kitten, you're sick. When I heard you spewed your guts onto that prick's shoes, my first reaction was just that he deserved it. And I feel like a shit for that."

"What? Why? He does deserve it."

Ryan chuckles. "No, because I was thinking about him, not you. But baby, you've been off all morning." He presses his hand to my forehead, and I wonder if it's possible to wish oneself into a fever.

"You're right," I say, greedily grabbing the excuse's coattails. "It's probably just a twenty-four-hour thing."

"Which you may have given to Nikki and Abby."

"I didn't think about that."

"Well, the spreading of the plague notwithstanding, did you three have fun?"

"Please. You know we did."

He grins. "I figured as much. I actually thought about popping over for a good night kiss, but I assumed that would break some marital rule."

"And you were right." I pluck a few chocolate chips and pop them into my mouth. "We had a total blast," I continue. "We ate brownies and watched Romancing the Stone."

I don't quite look him in the eye, even though I tell myself I have no reason to feel guilty. It's not like I'm actually lying. Everything I said was true.

Everything except the part about Abby being there. But since Abby is Nikki's business partner, I figure she was there in spirit. And what Ryan doesn't know can't hurt him.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he takes a sip of his coffee, camouflaging the fact that he's still saying nothing. But inside all that nothing is that weird vibe. I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's not him worrying that I'm sick.

Or maybe my hormone addled brain is just paranoid.

Silence lingers as I pluck out four more chocolate chips. Then he says, "Jamie. What's going on in that head of yours?"

Jamie. Not Kitten. And in that firm, Master of the Universe, tone.

I lick my lips. I want to tell him. I do.

But I can't seem to make the words come. So instead, I shake my head. "Nothing. I'm just feeling off, you know?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he simply looks at me. Then, to my shock, he catches my chin, pulls me to him, and captures me in a bone-melting kiss. I can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. Why not? He knows me better than anyone.

And I know him well enough to realize that he's fully aware that I'm keeping something from him.

It's my chance to come clean. To tell him about the news I got last night. News I'm still trying to process.

I open my mouth, sternly ordering myself to just spill it. But I ignore that inner voice and offer nothing more than a little shrug.

He sighs. "Is it work?"

I start to argue—to stick fast to the lie and reiterate that I'm sick. Instead, I nod. Why not? At least that conversational path is lined with the truth.

He closes his hand over mine. "Everything's going to change."

My chest tightens—he's talking about the pregnancy after all. But how—

"You're recognized on the street now, but after Dead Certain comes out everyone's going to want a piece of my wife."

I smile up at him. "But only you have her."

He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek. "Only me." Then he leans in, and I sigh, expecting the sweetness of his kiss. But his lips only brush my forehead.

I pull back with what I'm sure is a picture-perfect What The Fuck expression, but he only grins.

"I'll share most anything with you, Kitten. But not the stomach flu."

As I roll my eyes, he hurries away to dress, and I'm left alone with my malodorous coffee and absolutely no idea what to do now. Not about my career. Not about my body. Not about anything.

I don't know what I want.

I don't know my options.

But it's time for me to figure that out.