“I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to trap him.”

“He’d be an idiot to think that.”

I nod, but I’m not convinced. “I need some time to think. I just need to get my own head on straight before I dump this on him.”

“The longer you wait to tell him, the more it’ll feel like a betrayal when you finally do.”

“How about if you tell him and I go to Tahiti?”

She laughs, then rubs her hand over my back in a big circle. “It doesn’t work like that. If anyone’s going to Tahiti, it’s me.”

“Killjoy.”

***

“Mom, I don’t want to go to bed.”

I sigh and look up toward heaven, already exhausted and not in the mood to play the bedtime game with Sam.

“You were supposed to be in bed an hour and a half ago, Samuel Beauregard Boudreaux. I don’t want to have this argument.”

“But I didn’t tell you yet that I love you.”

I narrow my eyes on his angelic face. Angelic my ass. “Yes you did.”

“But I didn’t whisper it so the ghost couldn’t hear me.”

We are in the sitting room. I’m setting out fresh brownies for the guests to have with their wine. Only a few have come down for the wine hour. Rhys is sitting with them.

“There are no ghosts,” I inform Sam with a shake of my head.

“You don’t know that.”

I bite my lip. I have never yelled at Sam over bedtime, and I refuse to start now, but I’m reaching my limit.

“I do know, Sam. I love you, too. Now, go to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy.”

Rhys and the two guests are watching us like it’s a tennis match.

“Count sheep.”

“But I don’t like to count sheep. They make me puke.”

The guests chuckle. Rhys smiles, the traitor. And I simply hang my head.

“Sheep don’t make you puke.”

“Yep, they do.”

“I don’t care what you count, Sam. Just go to bed.”

“But I—”

“Come on, buddy.” Rhys stands and takes Sam’s hand, then winks at me. “Let’s go find something to count that doesn’t make you sick.”

He leads Sam to his bedroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say to the kind couple who are enjoying brownies and wine. “He’s fought me over bedtime since he was small.”

“Ours did too,” the wife replies with a wave of the hand. “He’ll eventually turn into a teenager, and then all he’ll ever want to do is sleep.”

“I’m looking forward to that day,” I reply with a grin.

“Let him be small,” her husband replies with a kind smile. “It’s over in the blink of an eye.”

I nod and leave them in the sitting room. I’m feeling a little better this evening, but now I’m just full of nerves. Rhys has been his usual happy, affectionate self all day, and all I can think is, once I tell him that I’m carrying his baby, is he going to go running in the other direction?

Because why wouldn’t he? He has no ties to me. He doesn’t owe me anything. He’s already gone above and beyond where Sam and I are concerned.

And I’m not even sure that he won’t be leaving to go back to Chicago any day.

Because I’m too much of a pussy to just ask him.

I finish cleaning the kitchen and prepare the food for Eva tomorrow morning. That will save her some time.

Finally, about an hour later, Rhys finds me in the kitchen. He moves up behind me, grips my shoulders in his hands and kisses my head. “You okay?”

I nod and turn in his arms, wrap my arms around his torso, and hug him close. His heartbeat is strong and sure against my cheek. God, he feels so damn good. Safe. Familiar.

He feels like home.

“Come on,” he murmurs and leads me out of the kitchen, flipping off lights as we go to my private quarters. But instead of walking into the bedroom, he sits on the couch and turns on the TV. “Lie down. Put your head in my lap.”

Well, that sounds like a little slice of heaven. So I do. As soon as my head meets his thigh, Rhys’s fingers are in my hair, combing it softly, rhythmically.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs. I look up at him, surprised to see so much worry in his bright green eyes.

“I just don’t feel well,” I reply quietly. And it’s the truth; I don’t feel well. “I probably caught whatever Sam had the other day.”

“Do you need to throw up?”

“No.” I smile, and without thinking about it, I cup his cheek in my hand, enjoying the way his light stubble feels against my skin. “You are so handsome.”

“You say that to all the guys who play with your hair when you don’t feel well.”

He always makes me laugh. “Only the ones who have green eyes and sexy arms.”

“You like my arms, do you?”

I nod and sigh as his fingertips scrub my scalp. “You’re good with your hands.”

“I love your hair.”

I love you.

“What do you want to watch on TV?” I ask instead.

“I don’t give a fuck about the TV.”

“Well, you turned it on,” I reply with a frown, and he clicks it off. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’d just rather look at you than watch TV.”

“Are you going to stare at me in a creepy way?” His lips twitch, and then tip up in the corner in that way they do when he finds me particularly cute.

“If you think lust is creepy, then yes.”

I laugh out loud, unable to stop the snort that comes along with it. “No, there’s a difference between creepy and lustful.”

“Okay then, just lustful.”

I rest my hands over my belly and the tiny baby sleeping there. I need to tell him. Now is the perfect time. We’re alone, and we’re comfortable.

But instead, I close my eyes and enjoy the way his fingers feel in my hair. No one in my life has ever touched me the way Rhys does.

“What are you thinking?” he asks softly.

“I was just thinking that no one’s ever touched me the way you do.”

His hand pauses for a moment, and then resumes. “I should hope not.”

“Does it bother you that I don’t have a lot of experience with men?”

Why did I just ask him that?

“Why would it bother me?”

“I mean, I’m twenty-seven. Shouldn’t I have had more partners?”

“I don’t think so. It’s been a lot of fun to show you new things. To watch you experience new feelings. It’s been a privilege, Gabby.”

I nod, but don’t open my eyes.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” I ask suddenly.

“Sixteen,” he replies immediately. I open my eyes to find him looking down at me with a grin. “No need to lie about that. Or anything else, for that matter.”

Direct hit.

“I was nineteen,” I reply. “And I got pregnant at the same time.”

“That’s crazy,” he replies.

“How many partners have you had?” Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Gabrielle!

“My fair share.” He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re acting very strangely tonight.”

“I’m just getting to know you better.”

“Okay.” He tosses his head back and forth. “I guess there have probably been about a dozen women.”

A dozen.

“I guess that’s not bad for a professional athlete. I mean, what’s the average? Fifty?”

“I have no idea,” he replies with a laugh. “Probably more than a dozen, yes.”

“So you’re not a man-whore.”

“No.”

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“Wow, your brain is on fire tonight.” His fingers drift down my cheek to my neck. “Cherry Garcia.”

“Favorite sexual position?”

“Any position that includes you in it,” he replies immediately.

“Good answer.” I grin up at him, and try to think of more questions. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Sixteen.”

“Holy shit! That’s a big foot.”

“I have to special order shoes.”

“Do you like to read?”

“I’m a Clive Cussler fan,” he replies and shakes his head. “I think we’re playing twenty questions.”

“I think it’s fun.”

“When is it my turn?”

“Go ahead.” I shift my hips so I’m lying on one side, but I’m still looking up into his handsome face. “Ask away.”