Page 53 of Pregnant By the Playboy

Hard.

I need to remove such words from my vocabulary.

I cut several slices of cheese and baguette, then put two plates on the table. I fill my plate with salad.

Just kidding. I help myself to a little of both salads before placing a generous amount of cheese, bread, and crackers on my plate, just as Vince comes over with the sausages.

Sausages. Hard.

I’m practically shaking with excitement, and I’m definitely drooling.

And now I’m embarrassed that I’m wearing a large—though appropriate—“pregnant and hungry” shirt and literally drooling over sausages.

Perhaps I should have dressed up for his visit. Like, put on clothes that aren’t pajamas.

Vince deposits two sausages on each plate before helping himself to some salad. For a few minutes, we eat in silence, me wolfing down my food at an alarming rate, him eating at a more sensible pace.

It feels very domestic, just sharing a meal together at my condo.

“So, you told your family about the pregnancy? How did it go?”

I may have spoken while chewing. I just can’t help stuffing my face with all this delicious food.

“It went fine.”

That’s a slightly terse response, coming from Vince Fong.

“It doesn’t sound like it went fine,” I say, my heart hammering.

He takes in my expression. “I didn’t mean to worry you. They’re happy. Surprised, of course, but happy. My grandma isn’t thrilled that we’re not married, but she’ll get over it. She was pleased when I called you bossy.”

“Hey! I am not bossy.”

Vince looks pointedly at the food on the table.

“I’m not bossy,” I say. “I’m pregnant. And you told me to text you whenever I needed anything, and I needed these sausages.”

To emphasize my point, I pop a bite of sausage and bakeapple jam in my mouth, and this time, I don’t hold back my groan of pleasure. In fact, I make the groan just a little obscene.

Vince’s eyes are heavy-lidded.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Yes, that was definitely necessary sausage.”

“I believe you.”

“Don’t use that sarcastic tone on me!”

His lips twitch. “I’m not trying to sound sarcastic. I do believe you. And I’ve never been pregnant, so who am I to argue? Most of the time I’ve known you, you’ve been growing another person inside you, so I’m not well acquainted with what you’re like otherwise.”

“Aside from that weekend.”

“That weekend. Yes.”

Although I made orgasmic sounds a few minutes ago, his smoldering gaze still surprises me. I feel bloated and clumsy and I’m hardly dressed for company.

Yet he looks at me just like he did on the night we met.

“Anyway,” he says, “getting back to my family dinner... They, uh, started teasing me about all the things I did in my childhood. Like eating Play-Doh and pouring shampoo on the carpet. Stuff like that.”