Page 112 of Married to the Scottish Player
At that, her gaze snaps to mine. “We?”
“Yes, Annabelle.We.”
Then she bursts out laughing. It’s loud, echoing against all the stone and marble tile, and she immediately claps a hand over her mouth.
“Sorry. I’m not laughing at this. It’s just—yourface.”
“My face? You should see yours.”
She groans. “This issonot how I thought today would go.”
I stand again, slow and deliberate, and take the test from her fingers. “You thought it’d be negative.”
“Iknewit would be negative,” she says, almost defensively. “I mean, I took one already. And I felt fine. There were no symptoms. Just a missed period, and sure, my boobs kind of hurt? Which happens! Sometimes! Like during stress. Or travel.” She lets out a dramatic groan as I stand and flops forward onto my chest like her bones have given out. “I don’t even know how tobepregnant, Maverick.”
I wrap my arms around her on instinct, warm and protective. “If it makes you feel any better, neither do I.”
Annabelle laughs again, shoulders shaking. “So now what?”
My shoulders go up and down. “I don’t know—take another one?”
She does, and that one is positive too.
“Shit,” she whispers.
My nod is slow. “It’s official.”
She glances up at me, eyes wide. “Should we run and get more? Best three out of four? Best five out of six?”
“Babe, I think the universe is pretty clear.” My voice cracks halfway through the sentence. “We’ll find a doctor tomorrow if you want, and I’ll go.”
“Obviously you’d come.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. “You’re the father.”
“Yeah—of your boobs.”
Now she glares. “You are not taking this seriously.”
“Oh, I am. Very seriously. I’m mentally buying cribs and decorating the nursery.”
“You don’t have a nursery.”
“No, but I will.”
She presses her fingers to her temples. “You’re giving me a headache with all your excitement. Why aren’t you freaking out?”
Good question. Maybe because I can afford a baby. I can afford to take care of her, move her if I need to. Medical expenses? No problem. Supplies? I’m your guy.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “If it’s a boy, I can buy him a tiny kilt!”
She throws her hands in the air. “Why would a baby need a kilt?”
I blink. “BecauseI’mScottish?”
She gives me a look. “But is thebabyScottish?”
“By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be eating shortbread and quotingBraveheart. You think I’m joking, but my nan would die and rise from the grave if I didn’t honor the family clan.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you even a little bit freaked out?”
