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“She does?” I smile. I liked his dog. I’ve never been able to have one and have always dreamed of having a pet. Mom said they smelled and made messes and she couldn’t be bothered with anything that would disrupt her perfectly ordered life or home.

“Every night I let her out of her kennel and she runs straight to the guest room. She whines so much when I take her out I eventually just put the kennel in there.”

“That’s…” Weird, I think, but I don’t say it. It makes my heart warm in a way I can’t remember it ever feeling. “I miss her too. But do you want me moving in with you just because I like your dog?”

I’m teasing him, and I hope he sees it. Based on the fact he doesn’t get upset, or annoyed, but smiles that heartbreakingly beautiful smile of his, I figure he gets it.

“No. I don’t want you to move in with me just because you like my dog. I want you to like me.”

I pull my hand from his slowly and regretfully, but while I’m trying to jump and reach for my dreams, small safe jumps are better than leaps. I smile at him, showing him what I’m not yet capable of saying, that I like him too, but not enough.

I dig into my soup.

“Friday,” Braxton says, sitting back in the booth. “We’ll start with Friday.”

He has a plan cooking in his eyes, something I’m sure I don’t want to know about, so I nod my agreement and take slow, measured sips of my soup.

This is good. There’s a chancewemight be good, but I still hear the whispered voices of disapproval from my parents, and a rock settles deep in my stomach.

At some point, I’m not only going to have to tell them I’m pregnant, I’m going to have to introduce them to Braxton. I might have just climbed a significant hill, but I’m not sure the mountainous obstacle of Mr. and Mrs. Cliff Thompson is one we’ll be able to scale unscathed.

But Friday. We can start with Friday.

Chapter 11

Cara

Good morning. Feeling okay?

The phone dings from my bathroom counter where I’m getting ready for work. It’s Friday, three days since I’ve seen Braxton, three days since I invited him to be my date for the gallery showing. We’ve been texting constantly, and always, my day starts with this same text from him.

I grin as I slide my thumb across the screen as another text comes in.

I’ll pick you up at six tonight. Can’t wait to see you.

My cheeks ache from the stretch of my smile and I type out a slew of texts I know Braxton wants to see.

I ate two crackers this morning and didn’t puke. Yay! #Pregnancygoals

I’ll be ready for you.

His reply is almost immediate, as it usually is. It appears that when Braxton told me on Tuesday he didn’t want to miss a minute of my pregnancy, he wasn’t the least bit joking. It feels strange to constantly have someone texting me, or calling as he sometimes does at night, just to see how I’m feeling. It feels really good too. My parents could hardly be bothered with Jimmy and me growing up. Our nanny Sasha was the one who picked us up from school when we had the flu and prayed for us before bed. My mom always seemed like us being children and getting the occasional flu or strep throat was more of an annoyance to her schedule. So while it’s taking time to get used to Braxton checking in on me, I also keep smiling every time he does.

That’s what I like to hear—about you being ready for me.

And congrats on the crackers. Hopefully you’re on the tail end of morning sickness.

Goodness.Between caring for me and making it clear he wants me in a way he’s already had me, Braxton is making it entirely difficult to take things slow.

As far as his hopes on the puking—a girl can dream. I spent most of yesterday afternoon puking at the gallery, reassuring Luca a million times that I was just fine. He’s the owner, early thirties, a slim Italian man who’s not only quite the playboy, but, well, he enjoys playing with boys. When I first met him, it wasn’t exactly obvious that he was gay, and my heart squeezed a bit when his current monthly fling showed up and popped a kiss right on his lips in front of me. He’s a good guy, an even better boss, giving me way too much flexibility over the last few weeks. Yesterday we were so busy with final preparations and verifying the catering and deliveries and artwork setup, as well as soothing the fragile and worried egos of the artist we’re showing tonight, that I’d forgotten to eat lunch. Which meant my stomach, needing to always have something in it, revolted from my neglect.

Braxton wasn’t thrilled when he called last night. I was already in bed at seven o’clock, tucked in and rewatchingSons of Anarchyon Netflix. He insisted on coming over to check on me.

I barely managed to hold him off, promising that tonight, I’d do something I’m still not entirely sure I’m ready to do.

I’m going back to his apartment after the show so he can make sure the same thing doesn’t happen tonight or tomorrow morning.

To say I’m nervous about spending this night at his place again is a massive understatement, but at least this morning’s lack of nausea helps me feel better. By the time I leave for work, it’s the first time in weeks where I haven’t felt like I’m dragging an additional thirty pounds behind me.