I can’t keep this from Chloe any longer. She’s going to find out one way or another and I want to be the one to break the news to her, to tell her my life is changing in a way I never saw coming with a woman I’ve never been in love with.
“Call me later?” Stacey says.
“Yeah, I’ll call you. And keep me updated on everything. I’d really like to go to that first appointment with you.”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” She holds her hand up and wiggles her fingers before turning around and walking back into the lobby. I want to be in my child’s life, but I don’t want to be in Stacey’s…and I know that’s not possible.10Chloe“Dammit,” I say, right after the little pink pill goes down my throat. I’m all stuffy with a slight headache from congestion, and the only thing Sam had in his bathroom for it was Benadryl. It always has a slightly delayed reaction in me, but I take it on occasion when I can’t sleep, and I remembered that I promised to drive us to Silver Ridge right after I swallowed the damn thing.
Will a cup of coffee counteract it? Maybe two cups of coffee?
My phone dings with a text and I walk out of the bathroom, set my water glass on the counter, and smile when I see Sam’s name. He’s leaving work and should be home soon, which is my cue to put the enchiladas in the oven. They’re prepped and ready to cook, and if I actually get the timing right, Sam will just be walking through the door when the timer goes off to take them out.
Then it’s a bit of a mad rush to clean the kitchen, fix my hair, put on a bit of makeup, and change into the lingerie I packed just for Sam. It’s strange, I suppose, that I love to wear matching bra and underwear sets. No one sees them but me, and having something sexy on under my regular clothes makes me feel good about myself. Yet the thought of putting on this sheer black corset with a matching thong makes me nervous.
Sam will love it, I’m sure of that. But when I look at myself in the mirror over the dresser, I feel insecure. I’m in decent shape, thanks to going with Charles to the gym and having his workouts kick my butt. Still, it can be a struggle to look in the mirror and not immediately start picking myself apart.
Yeah, I’m in better shape this year than I was in my twenties, but that cellulite on my ass isn’t going anywhere. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of that little pudge of fat next to my armpits that looks awful in photos—or at least I think so. I’ve cycled through phases of loving and hating being a redhead my whole life. Sometimes I love my dark red hair. It’s vibrant and thick and I love not being typical. Other days, I want to dye my hair blonde or go all exotic with long, dark locks.
I take one last look at myself and roll my eyes. Standing here mentally insulting myself isn’t going to change anything. Those under-eye bags I hate? Sam probably won’t even notice, and it’s not something a few hours extra sleep wouldn’t help anyway.
Shutting off the bedroom light, I grab my robe because I’m cold and want to dramatically unveil myself to Sam once he walks through the door. I get the table set, the enchiladas out of the oven, and everything else ready to serve…and Sam isn’t home yet.
“Dammit,” I grumble, debating on whether or not to put the food back in the oven to keep it warm. I usually only cook for myself and eat right away. This whole making food for others to enjoy with me is something I’m going to have to perfect.
Deciding to just leave everything on the counter, I sit on the couch and mindlessly scroll through social media. Charles updates his Instagram stories as I’m scrolling, and the ten-second video of him sitting at some sort of pub with a friend has me scrambling to get him on the phone.
“Hey,” he answers on the third ring. “You okay? You never call.”
“Why does everyone say that?” I grumble, though I know it’s true. I hate talking on the phone, or to most people in general, if I’m being honest. This whole fame thing with my series taking off threw me for a loop, but I love my characters enough to put up with it. “And you know why I’m calling.”
“Uh,” he starts, and the sounds of the pub filter through the phone. “You’re pregnant?”
“Hah, no, or not that I’m aware of. I saw your story and—I’m not on speaker, am I?”