Page 50 of Desperate Games

And hearing her say it? For the first time?

I didn’t correct her.

I didn’t flinch.

I just smiled and told her I was proud of her sparkly pink painting, because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.

Now, here I am, comparing butterfly decals and castle-shaped bunk beds like a man who’s already given his whole heart away—and it’s not even a question who owns it anymore.

I didn’t plan for this.

But nothing in my life has ever made me prouder.

We’ve been at this furniture store for over an hour, picking out everything she wants for her new bedroom—her new home. It’s the least I can do after years of splitting weekends and holidays, pretending like I wasn’t aching every time I dropped her off with Mom.

Now? It’s all changing.

She’s mine. Fully. Officially. Permanently.

And if she wants a loft bed shaped like a treehouse and a dresser covered in mermaid stickers?

So be it.

I’ll build the damn thing myself if it makes her happy.

I stand, stretching my back and glancing at my phone. I look around for the sales rep.

Then, I see her.

Or rather, I feel her first—like the air shifts and every part of me goes on high alert.

Andrea Ramirez.

Walking into the store like she owns the place, sunlight catching on the waves of her hair, lips painted in her usual no-nonsense nude, one hand bracing her back—and the other cradling her swollen—fuck me, her pregnant—belly.

I freeze.

The ground tilts.

The breath in my lungs goes sharp, jagged.

Because no fucking way.

She’s glowing. Radiant.

That undeniable pregnancy glow that makes every part of her look softer and more luminous.

Her full breasts strain against her cardigan.

It’s November. Three months since I saw her last.

Her bump is prominent, though.

So, she’s not that newly pregnant—this is months along.

Early second trimester, I’m thinking.

And she’s pregnant with someone’s baby.