Page 79

His face falls. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything.”

Before I can argue, Wicker’s voice carries across the room. “He’ll need a hockey kit. Skates.” He shoots Lex an annoyed look. “A helmet obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lex mutters, looking frustrated at the interruption.

“Pads, a jersey,” Pace continues, but frowns. “Guess he’ll be too small for a stick at first?”

I turn away from their nonsense, just happy Lex and I aren’t going to have this out yet again, and open the closet door. I take the moment to exhale and cup my breasts, getting a smidge of relief. Maybe I need a more supportive bra. Maybe something with more padding. Or less? Whatever style, I need something to help my nipples not be so sensitive.

Lex clears his throat. “Does the closet look good?”

This has essentially been the cycle of our arguing since Lex confessed his true intentions with the West End blood drive. I get angry, he pleads his case, nothing changes, and we focus on the baby because it’s the only thing we actually agree on.

I drop my hands. “It’s great. They did a really good job. We’ll need some hangers,” I say, still feeling grumpy, “those adorable little ones, and maybe a few baskets for smaller items.”

The closet is smaller, having been divided with the majority of the space on the opposite side, in my room. Wicker’s demand. This side has two bars for hanging clothes and several shelves. Plenty of room for our little pineapple and his tiny belongings.

“You know, I think we should add a few hooks.” I turn to make sure Lex is including all of this on the list and find him standing so close that my belly brushes against his abdomen.

“You know, there are a few ways to help with that.”

“Help with what?” I ask, exasperated. “Hooks?”

He gives my chest a pointed look, and fuck, he’s like some kind of goddamn shampoo commercial. I’d swear a breeze floatsby, billowing out his hair, all majestic and sexy-like. Instantly, my nipples get hard. Fine. Hard-er.

Why does he have to wear his hair down like that?

It doesn’t help that he leans in, reaching out to graze the curve of my elbow with soft fingers. “With the aches and strain you’re experiencing in your breasts. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

“You know, huh?” I snap. “You know what it’s like to go from reasonably-sized tits for half of your life to carrying around two swollen melons that are constantly in a state of flux?”

“Well, er… no.” He shifts uncomfortably, moving back a smidge. “I do not. Did you try the cold and warm compresses like I suggested?” At least this time, he’s the one to get all throaty and glazed in the eyes. “Or light massaging when you’re in the shower.”

“I read the books,” I tell him, not in the mood to be Dr. Daddy-splained to right now. “Nothing is going to give me much relief until the baby comes.” I cup my breasts with both hands, wincing. “They’re just so big and ridiculously sensitive, and it seems to be getting worse.” I glance over to where Pace and Wicker are discussing camera placement. Pace stretches his arms over his head, making that tight shirt rise up, giving me a peek at the sexy swath of skin right at the top of his ass. I cross my arms over my chest and wince. “Ouch.Jesus. See?”

His lips part on a slow, close exhale, “There are…othermethods.”

“Like what?” I ask, honestly desperate to try anything.

His eyes haven’t risen from my tits once. “Methods we could help facilitate.”

There’s one word in that sentence that catches my attention. Tilting my head I ask, “What do you mean ‘we’?”

“Some women find nipple play during pregnancy helpful—even to the point of engaging lactation.” His throat jumps with a swallow. “Instead of suppressing it, you go all in, but…” Seemingto snap out of the daze, he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, grimacing. “Never mind.”

“But what?” Because just hearing the words ‘nipple play’ has me on board.

“It has risks.” He steps back, a divot of worry appearing in his brow. “Too big, in my opinion.”

Of course he thinks that. “Like what?”

“Early labor for one thing.” His hands drop to my belly. “As much as I want you to have some relief, I’m not comfortable with the risk.”

I gawk at him, the anger rising. “Oh,you’renot comfortable? Then heaven for-fucking-fend!” I glance over, realizing my outburst has caught his brothers’ attention. “You hear that, guys? Lex is uncomfortable.”

His jaw is set. “As the Prince in charge of our child’s health?—”

“But it’s not,” I argue, whipping my glare at him. “It’s not just our child. It’s not even just me. That’s your problem, Lex! Me, the baby, the entirety of West End? You don’t give people a choice over their own bodies, you just decide because you can take or save a life, it makes you God.”