Page 143 of Embracing the Beat
“You’re growing another person inside you.” One I want to feel move, but so far, no luck. “That’s exhausting work.”
“All I do is sit around. Either here or at the studio. I’m not doing that much.”
“You’re doing plenty.”
She’s still working on her first album with Arrhythmic, but spending a lot of planning time with Jax, Nick, and even another artist with the label, Dylan. I haven’t heard everything they’ve recorded yet, but what I have has nearly brought me to my knees. The emotions her voice can inspire are breathtaking.
A pressure slides along my palm, and I still, hardly daring to breathe.
“Do you feel that?” she whispers, lifting her hands to cover mine.
Another pressure shift, but this time under the opposite palm.
“Holy shit,” I say, awed by the sensation, the realization hitting me now more than ever—this baby is real. And we’ll be meeting him or her sooner rather than later.
“Crazy, right?” She turns and lifts her face to glance at me again, and I capture her lips with mine.
“There are no words,” I tell her. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Her soft smile morphs to a light grimace, and she starts to wiggle out of the cradle of my hips. “But I need to pee again.”
I bark out a laugh, standing as well to get the blood flowing back to my legs.
“Hurry. You don’t want to miss the ball drop,” I call after her.
11:54.
Tucking my hand in my pocket, I confirm the box is still there, palming it and hiding it behind the pillow I was just leaning against.
“You okay if I turn it over to the drop?” I ask loudly.
“Okay,” she calls back, and I hear the water turn on in the bathroom.
The recording from New York City is full of people singing and dancing and waiting for the magical moment when the new year begins. And my heart feels like I’ve sprinted the thirty-yard dash.
“I didn’t miss it, did I?” she asks, rushing back to the living room.
“No. But we’re getting close. Cider?” I ask, pouring two glasses of the sparkling cider we picked up for tonight.
She giggles, but nods. “I feel like a kid again.”
“No champagne for you.” I waggle my finger at her.
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t have any.”
“I’m drunk on you,” I tell her. “I don’t need champagne.”
She groans at the line but wraps her arms around me anyway.
“That was bad,” she says.
“You love it.”
“Have you been hanging out with Dylan?” she teases.
I’ve heard stories. The man’s lines are nothing short of cheesy.
“Nope. All me, baby,” I say, winking at her.
