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“I hate men,” I choke out over a sob.

Graham doesn’t say anything. He holds me for a few more minutes, running his hand through my hair and over my shoulder, soothing me until I calm down, and then he kisses the top of my head. “Go shower. You’ll feel better if you get cleaned up and while you’re doing that, I’ll order us some pizza.”

“Pepperoni and sausage and jalapeños,” I mutter. Pizza actually sounds good.

“Jalapeños on pizza?”

“It’s really good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He gives me a gentle shove. “Now go.”

I groan, stretching my legs as I roll off the couch in an overdramatic fashion.

“Fine, I’ll go. But I’m showering under duress.” I glare at him.

He grins. “Noted.”

—

I’m in the hall bathroom after my shower, just finishing blow-drying my hair when it happens. When I feel it.

“What?” I whisper to my reflection to the mirror, but I’m already setting down the hair dryer and brush and lifting up the pale blue camisole I put on after my shower. It’s tight on my stomach, stretched across everything that’s growing, but it also makes everything look cute. I ignore the cute factor and lean forward. I need to get closer.

Then I feel it again.

A tiny little flutter. Like eyelashes against my cheek. Or the wiggle of a ladybug in my palm. And it happens again. In the exact same spot.

My hand falls there, and I press my thighs against the bathroom counter getting my stomach as close to the mirror as I can, and I’m staring down at my stomach, staring at where I feel the little flutters.

I see nothing in the reflection. I press my hand more firmly to that area and…

The baby. I can feel it. It’s early, but I feel it again and then a third time.

“Holy crap.” I am in awe, and tears form in my eyes.

It’s amazing. I watch my reflection in the mirror. A tear drops off my chin and hits my shirt just above my right breast.

After several moments, I feel another flutter. A kick. My baby is kicking me and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Graham!” I shout, tugging down my shirt and fixing the waistband of my gray yoga pants. “Graham!”

I call his name again, hurrying down the short hallway toward his kitchen and living room.

“You have to see this!” I cry out again and reach the end of the hallway that opens up into the small living area, the even smaller dining area, and the galley kitchen beyond.

And I freeze.

He hasn’t answered me, but now I know why.

Graham is resting against the kitchen counter bar top, but he’s relaxed, a little less disheveled, and his eyes are pinned on me. I barely pay attention to him because it’s the guy a few feet from him that catches my attention and steals my breath.

Braxton is here. He has his hands on his hips, one hand holding his hat. His dark head of hair looking like he’s been wearing his hat all day. He’s in his typical jeans and thermal shirt, this time a deep, dark red that looks absolutely fabulous on him.

And both of their eyes are on me.

“Are you okay?” Braxton asks, taking a step toward me.

Graham steps in front of him, though, blocking his movement toward me, but I still step back toward the hallway.