Page 129 of Married to the Scottish Player
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, and mean it. “We’ll figure it out together.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
“Whatever it is, I think it’ll be loud. And sassy.”
Her brow lifts. “So ... like us.”
“Exactly like us.”
Her laugh is soft and warm, and I swear something shifts in my chest again—another click into place. Another quietyes. Then her face changes as the screen of her phone lights up and she glances at it, smile freezing on her face.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sets the phone on the table and nudges it toward me. “Lucy sent this.”
A photo.
Of us. At this table. Right this second.
Blurry. Zoomed in. Grainy—but unmistakablyus.
My jaw tightens. She sets the phone back down. “So much for privacy.”
Fuck. “I don’t want this to ruin the evening. Hold on.” I toss down my napkin, stand, and stomp toward the host stand.
The poor guy behind it is poking at the computer screen at the hostess desk when he spots me stalking toward him and freezes like a deer in headlights. “Sir—Mr. McBride. Can I help—”
“There’s someone taking pictures of me. Ofushaving dinner.” I jab a finger toward the booth. “In this building. In a private restaurant where I expect privacy.”
How many fucking ways must I say it?Do I Have to Spell It Out?
The man’s face goes pale. “I-I’m so sorry, I had no idea anyone—”
“I’m not mad at you,” I grind out, lowering my voice, trying not to make a bigger scene. “But someone is snapping photos while we’re sitting here and I’d love for it to stop.”
He fumbles with a headset. “If I find them, d-do you want them removed from the restaurant?”
“Please,” I snap, running a hand through my hair, frustration prickling at my scalp. I glance back at our booth to find Annabelle, gaze glued to the action.
Shit. I head back toward her, jaw clenched, and drop into my seat like the world just handed me a shitty curveball and I still plan to hit it out of the park.
“It’s handled,” I say, reaching for her hand again. “Security’s doing a sweep. Whoever it was won’t be bothering us again.”
Her brow furrows. “Is this going to get worse?”
“Probably,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
Annabelle shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll ...”Get used to it.“Now, what were we saying? Oh. Baby.” She leans toward me. “Should I whisper?”
“No, babe, don’t whisper.” God, she’s cute.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after a beat. “About what this all means.”
“The baby?”
She nods. “And ... everything else. Us. You. Me. What kind of parents we’ll be. What city we’ll live in. If we’ll kill each other before the baby even arrives.”
“Do you want to live somewhereelse?”
