Page 127 of Shots Fired

I turn to Collins. “You’re quiet.”

Taking a sachet of sweetener, she empties it into her coffee, rolling her lips together as she does. She’s always been unreadable, but never more so than in this moment.

“I’ve lost a lot of people in my life. Some through premature death and others because I struggled to maintain a friendship through fear of getting hurt. The only true bonds I’ve made in my adult years are with the people sitting around this table and the two boys I have waiting for me back home. Before we know it, a beautiful baby girl is going to enter our lives, and I, for one, want to snuggle the shit out of her without awkward-as-ass silences. Unfortunately, I don’t see that there’s much we can do other than remind our men that friendships come before egos. That, and we’ll kick their butts into next week if they don’t sort their shit out.”

Mum hums from beside me, Jenna nodding along with Kendra.

“Well, ladies, I have nothing more to add. You all speak sense and a lot of it,” Jenna says. “I personally enjoy nights out at Lloyd’s, and the last one was awkward as shit.”

Everyone makes their agreement known, including me.

I release Mum’s hand and drop a palm to my stomach, circling it slowly. “I’m praying when I reach my twenty-week scan and I can share more photos of Emily, that this will all be forgotten. Archer deserves to enjoy this pregnancy as much as I do, and all I can see is the sadness in him. I know he’s not perfect, but who is? He loves me and …” I trail off as my friends and family all look at me. I know I’m ready to say the words, but the first time will be to my husband. I clear my throat and continue, “Jack has nothing to worry about.” I retake my mum’s hand, squeezing it softly. “And neither does Jon. I don’t think there’s anything Archer wouldn’t do for me or our baby.”

When the elevator doors to our apartment open, I can tell Archer’s home from the faint sound of music as it filters down the hallway.

He’s working out. Again.

Dropping the tan tote I take everywhere these days, I head towards the sound of Tate McRae.

“Archer?” I call, pushing the soundproof gym door open, but finding no one inside.

I try our bedroom, but still nothing.

“Archer?” I call out again, a little louder this time.

As I step up to the spare bedroom door, the music grows louder, and paint fills my nostrils when I crack it open and peer inside. Archer has his back to me, halfway up a stepladder as he paints the back wall a bright yellow—a similar shade to the bows on my wedding shoes.

He’s not wearing anything but a pair of light-gray athletic shorts and old white sneakers.

I pin my lip between my teeth as I observe the way the muscles in his back flex and roll with each stroke of the brush.

Jesus freaking Christ. That’s my husband.

I stand, watching him for maybe thirty seconds more before the music ends and he climbs down from the ladder, immediately stopping when he turns and sees me.

“Hey.” He drops the brush down into the paint tray and begins walking over to me, wiping his hands down his thighs to clean them. “I thought you’d be a while longer at Rise Up.”

I’m too busy staring at his sculpted chest—which is dotted with paint—to answer, and he tips my chin to look at him.

“My face is here.” He smirks, smoothing his lips over mine.

When he pulls back, his eyes fall to my stomach. The fitted jumper dress I’m wearing does nothing to hide my bump, just like the girls noticed earlier.

“Are you decorating the nursery?” I ask on a whisper, the way he’s studying my body leaving me breathless.

Archer drops to his knees in front of me, rolling my dress up past my stomach to expose bare skin.

“Yes.” He presses a single kiss to my bump. “I promised you we’d go shopping, and given another two weeks have passed since I originally planned, I want to get all the things—clothes, furniture, equipment for Emily. Anything and everything my wife wants. You know, the usual. I figured if the room’s paintedalready, then we don’t need to worry about messing up anything we buy.”

I cup his face in my palms as he looks up at me. His eyes are one of my favorite features. “But we didn’t discuss color themes.”

His lips find my skin, and as he speaks, goose bumps break out. “I’m sorry, Darcy Doll. But Pip here told me that she wanted the same color as the bows on her mommy’s wedding shoes.”

“Is that so?” I say, although it’s more of a gasp as he moves his mouth toward my apex.

With both hands, he tears my thong away from my body, tossing it across the room. Next, he kisses just above my pussy, adding a swipe of his tongue for good measure.

“Did I guess the color correctly?” he asks, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder. “Because your pussy tells me I did.”