Page 90 of Ruthless Claim

Oh. Well, that’s thoughtful of him. I go to pick up the mug and notice some Saltine crackers sitting next to the cup. I look at him in confusion.

“Plain crackers can help settle a nauseous stomach,” he says, eyes still on his phone.

A wave of emotion moves through me so quickly that I have to take a breath and look at the ceiling before I trust my face again.

“Thank you,” I croak out, my eyes burning.

He shrugs. “It’s tea,” he says, but he refuses to look at me

I drink the tea and the crackers do help. By the end of the week it’s just part of the morning, the tea and the crackers and the careful way he’s started checking in.

But it’s not hovering. Cillian doesn’t hover after all.

He also starts researching, which I find out when I walk past his study and see him reading something that takes me a second to identify.

“Is that a…pregnancy book?” I ask.

He looks up, a flash of embarrassment on his face. “It’s research,” he says defensively.

I fight a laugh. “It’s a pregnancy book.”

“It’s research on pregnancy,” he says, with great dignity, “this is a big deal and it requires information.”

I peer at the book, smiling as I notice it’s What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

I think about how attentive he’s been to me and how gentle he’s been.

I love him so much I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.

“How far did you get?” I ask.

He looks down at the page. “Week eight,” he reports. “The embryo is apparently the size of a raspberry.”

“A raspberry,” I say, thinking about the fruit. That does sound good. Do we have raspberries in the house? I hope we do.

“A kidney bean last week. It’s growing fast.” He says this with such complete seriousness that I have to look away, biting my lip.

“Very informative,” I say to the doorframe. “Carry on.”

I hear him turn a page as I walk away and I press my hand to my mouth and smile against it in the hallway, where no one can see me doing it.

He becomes slightly unbearable about a week in. I say slightly, but I mean completely.

“You need to rest more,” he says when I come home from the gallery, scowling at me.

“I’m pregnant,” I tell him, toeing off my shoes. “Not dying.”

“You’re growing a human,” he announces. “That requires rest.”

I roll my eyes.

“At least put your feet up,” he pleads with me, steering me toward the chair. “I’ll make dinner.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the truth is I’m exhausted.

It’s a bone-deep kind of tired I’ve never experienced before that hits me somewhere around four in the afternoon and doesn’t lift.

Growing a person is harder than anyone warned me about, and I’ve been pushing through it on pride and stubbornness.