Page 94 of Accidental Groom

“You’re psychic.”

He shrugs. “You used to eat like a frat boy. I figured pregnancy would either ruin your appetite or make it worse.”

The comment, from him, doesn’t feel like an attack the way it would coming from the mouth of my mother.

I follow him inside, the heat slamming into me from the fans overhead as I step through the door. The place is almost empty, dimly lit, and buzzing faintly with bad overhead fluorescents. The booths are classic red vinyl, and a waitress pours coffee for a man slumped forward on the counter like his life is ending or he’s just too exhausted to function.

It smells likeheaven.

We settle into a booth near the back. I order a grilled cheese with fries and a glass of lemonade, then clear my throat as I stare the waitress in the eyes.

“Do you guys have pickles?” I ask.

Her brows knit. “Yeah.”

“Can I have a cup of pickle juice? And a glass of crushed ice?”

She blinks at me, then makes a littleohface. “You’re pregnant.”

I nod, once, as if that explains everything.

She walks off, muttering something abouthormonesanddamn weirdosunder her breath, but five minutes later, I’ve got exactly what I asked for. Ross stares at me in abject horror as I mix the lemonade and pickle juice over the ice like a chemist.

“You know I love you,” he says hesitantly, watching in fascination, “but that is the worst thing I have ever seen.”

“It’s notthatbad.” I shoot him a glare and take a sip, the flavor absolutely disgusting but exactly correct. “Okay, fine, it’s awful, but Iwantit.”

“Your body is going insane.”

“My body is doing its best,” I counter, setting the glass down.

He sighs, sitting back in the booth, his fingers tapping the table. “So, what happened?”

I stare at the ice in my concoction, watching as it settles. “Harry saw our last few texts.”

“And?”

“He flipped,” I murmur, flicking my gaze up to him.

Ross’s brows draw together as he leans forward, resting his chin in his palm with his elbow on the table. “Defineflipped.”

“He thought we were together,” I say carefully. “He asked if our daughter is even his.”

Ross whistles low under his breath. “Christ.”

“I mean, in his defense, I didn’t handle it well, either. I was cagey. And I’ve been distant lately. I just didn’t… I didn’t know how to explain.”

He blinks at me. “You could’ve just told him. It’s not like it matters now.”

“I wasgoingto.”

Ross’s lips form a flat line as he gives me a look that saysyeah, sure.

“I was! I went to talk to him last night, was going to go over everything that we clearly needed to discuss, and I found him sitting and drinking scotch in his dead wife’s room like a ghost and I panicked, okay?” I ramble, scrubbing my face. “It didn’t exactly feel like the moment to bring up my last fake marriage.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m not judging,” he says. “You just probably should have told him sooner.”

“I know,” I groan. “I do. I just couldn’t work up the courage to say,‘Hey, sorry, just so you know, I married someone else years ago as a favor, hope that’s okay!’”