Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)
“I have a charity thing Saturday night,” he grumbles. “Will you be my date?”
“How the heck are you ever going to get laid when you show up to an event with a pregnant woman on your arm?” Life’s sense of humor makes an appearance with impeccable timing. A tall, blond chick with a perfect body rollerblades past us, her head swiveling to get a good look at my smokin’ hot friend. “Hey, baby,” she croons.
“Who says I’m not getting laid?”
The look of pure delighted surprise on my face checks him.
“Oooo, tell me all the sordid details,” I purr, wringing my hands. “And don’t leave out any of really filthy parts.” At this, he looks pained.
“They’re not really all that filthy.”
“Well then make some up, for goodness sake!”
He throws his arm around my shoulders and says, “Okay, but I need fuel if I’m gonna do this right.”
I practically jog to Sarabeth’s. Because single and desperately horny pregnant women need to get it any way they can.
“Do I look fat?”
“Only around the belly,” says my best friend. I give her the finger because I can. I’m allowed to be irritable when I’m feeling vulnerable and large and being forced to dress up. Looking in the floor length mirror, I decide that this is as good as it’s going to get. The black jersey Donna Karan gown that fit me perfectly for years still does––everywhere except the middle. I left my hair down. Though I don’t think it’s going to distract from the girth.
“Wassup, Fancy McButterPants,” Amber shouts at poor Ethan, who is patiently waiting for me to find my cellphone. She walks from her bedroom to the kitchen in a pair of super small t-shirt shorts and a thin tank top. She’s always been pretty carefree about her body because there isn’t much of it.
As I’m digging into my tote for my cellphone, I watch Ethan’s eyes track her across the room with an equal mix of naked fear and fascination on his face. He thinks he’s being discreet about it. Yeah, as discreet as a sledgehammer. Men, smh. Before Amber can do irreparable damage to Ethan’s self worth, I grab my purse and push him out the door.
“What event is this again?” I ask him once I’m safely buckled in his Audi and we’re on our way.
“You know––the event for pediatrics cancer research. You’ve never looked more beautiful, by the way.” Something in my gut churns uncomfortably and it’s not a baby. More like suspicion.
“Nice try, counselor. But you know those shenanigans don’t work on me.” His grin spreads from ear to ear. “The one Mrs. Davis founded?” Mrs. Davis––the wife of the owner of the Titans. I get a small nod in reply. As soon as we step into the Metropolitan Club, my suspicion is confirmed. Many of the Titans players are in attendance.
“What the hell is going on? Why are the guys here?”
Ethan has the grace to look guilty. “Mrs. Davis planned it for the bye week.”
Across the room, a man as beautiful as sin stands in a corner by himself, staring absently into space––the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.
Oh for the love of…
His head turns and a pair of unblinking crystal clear gray eyes take me in from head to toe. My stomach flips just looking at him. No one ever tells you that being in love feels a heck of a lot like food poising. He needs a haircut again, it’s curling around his ears, and his jaw is covered with scruff. God forbid he should actually use a razor. I can’t take my eyes off of him, of course.
“I’m going to the bar,” Ethan mumbles. I don’t even have time to lay into him; the coward leaves skid marks. As Cal gets closer, I can see the faint yellow-green ring around his eye. Looks like Harper got a good shot in. I’m secretly pleased at this. Before Cal reaches me, the wife of one of the younger players approaches, a very bubbly blond I remember meeting at the charity carnival held at team facilities. She chatters on, jumping from topic to topic while her eyes flicker to my stomach. It was either wear a dress that shows off the bump, or a tent that makes me look like a whale. I sense when she can no longer pretend she doesn’t see it.
“Are you…are you pregnant?”
Awkward. What do I say when the congratulations start? And do I admit it’s Calvin’s? Right about now, I want to take a running start and punch Ethan in the face.
“Eight weeks,” I answer and hope she leaves it at that. Scanning the room, I find Ethan and head over to the bar area. “Cindy, will you excuse me for a moment? I have to ask my date something.” I’m gone before she has a chance to respond, undoubtedly leaving behind a wake of confusion.