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This is one of the rare occasions I’ve seen Kit look embarrassed. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, which he only does when he’s uncertain.
I guess I’ve memorized some of his tells too.
“Kit calls me Monty because …” My voice trails because I don’t actually knowwhyhe gave me a nickname, just what it’s short for.
“Because we met at Montgomery Hall,” he finishes.
“That’s sweet.” My mom smiles, glancing between us, and I’m quite certain she’s getting the wrong idea.
Or is it the right idea? I’m retraining my brain when it comes to Kit, ever since our conversation last week.
I’m so used to him calling me Monty that I never searched for a deeper meaning. Never wondered why he gave me a nickname at all. But now? It’s like it’s hitting me for the first time that the moniker is a reference to our first meeting. And thatissweet. Romantic even.
My mom pours the wine Kit brought, and we sit down for dinner. She made lasagna—another one of my favorites—and I demolish two servings. My body is trying to make up for the last three months of crackers because, lately, my appetite has returned with a vengeance.
The evening isn’t awkward, the way I was worried about. Kit’s charming. I guess I thought that might change because we’re in my world. But he fills every pause with questions, appearing entirely absorbed as my mom talks about the courses she’s teaching this semester. He and my dad discuss the book Kit brought him—a new release by a scientist my father admires. A thoughtful gift I wouldn’t have known to get him.
When Jane arrives during dessert, Kit answers all her eager queries about his “rich and fabulous family”—Jane’s words, not mine—with patience and humor.
Even Newton is enamored by him, lying on the hardwood right next to Kit’s chair, even after all the food has been cleared.
“He’swaybetter trained than my parents’ dogs,” Kit comments at one point, glancing down at the fluffy pile on the floor. “They’re a couple of hellions. I took them out for a bathroom break once, and they dug up half of my grandfather’s yard.”
He glances at me, flashing my favorite boyish grin, and I decide maybe falling isn’t so scary after all.
I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, which has become a regular occurrence that research has told me will only become more frequent. Right as I’m slipping back under the sheets, hoping I’ll fall back asleep quickly, there’s a strange sensation in my stomach. A gentle nudge, barely more than a flutter.
I instantly stiffen, pressing a palm against my small bump.
Holy shit.
Before I can second-guess it, I slide out of my bed and tiptoe down the hallway. My dad always leaves the kitchen light on overnight, so there’s enough illumination to avoid bumping into any furniture.
Kit’s fast asleep on his back, one arm tucked behind his head and both feet hanging off the end of the couch.
I tap one of his ankles. “Kit.”
His head turns, but his eyes don’t open.
I tap him again, a little harder. “Kit.”
A groan this time. Then he squints. “Collins? What—” He’s suddenly upright at a speed that startles me into stumbling a step back. “Fuck, is something wrong?—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say hurriedly. “Nothing’s wrong. I just … the baby’s kicking. I thought you might want to feel.”
Kit swipes a hand through his hair. “Thank God. You scared the shit out—the baby’s kicking?” The rest of what I said finally sinks in.
It takes me a second to respond because the fact that he’s shirtless just registered withme. And my memory of our night together didn’t really do his abs justice.
I manage a weak, “Yeah,” as I take a seat on the couch. He sinks down beside me. Old cushions sag beneath us. “It feels weird.Goodweird,” I hasten to clarify when he frowns. “Kind of like bubbles are floating around in there.”
I pull my T-shirt up, knotting it under my boobs.
Kit stares at my stomach. I ended up sending him a photo on Thanksgiving, but he hasn’t seen my bump in person since the first ultrasound. And there wasn’t much to see then. Now, there’s a noticeable bulge.
“Wow,” he whispers, pressing his palm flat against it.
I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with how low my dad turns the heat at night. And suddenly, there’s another flutter, like the baby is reacting to his touch too.