Page 116 of Rockstar Baby

Let’s hope.

I couldn’t stop staring at her, sucking down every bit of her as if she was oxygen. The shirt’s hem flirted with her navel, until she shifted just a bit more and it lifted enough for me to fully glimpse her belly.

Herswollenbelly.

Christ, what was I seeing? It couldn’t be what I thought. It simply could not.

My knees turned to liquid, and I gripped the doorframe. Spots danced at the edges of my vision.

I was suffering heat stroke. Or worse. So much worse.

Just then, she yanked out her Air Pods and turned her head toward me. Her mouth rounded in shock.

She wasn’t the only one currently experiencing that emotion. I could only manage one word.

“Ivy.”

Twenty

I staredat my paint-splattered hands, still under water in the sink. I’d been washing my brushes, completely in my own world, focused on the Halestorm blaring in my ears. I wasn’t full of rage right now, but I was all about female empowerment anthems at the moment.

Until I’d caught a glimpse of a ghost out of the corner of my eye and that stupidly sexy voice had said my name.

For a second, I’d forgotten I was pregnant.

Forgotten that I wasn’t supposed to feel this wild hope in my chest when I knew Rory was near. The instant that mix of leather and woodsmoke hit me, I was helpless not to smile. To turn to him as if I’d been doing exactly that all my life.

But I wasn’t just thinking of me now. Even if I wanted to run to him and embrace him despite being pissed and hurt he hadn’t called me back, I couldn’t. I had someone else to think about now.

The someone else he was examining via my stomach as if he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“The truck,” he said hoarsely, still not looking from my belly. It was rather eye-catching since none of my clothes fit right. “You did it.”

“I did.” Every part of me was trembling, but I still threw back my shoulders. “I’m damn proud of it.”

I wasn’t only talking about the truck. I was talking about our—my—baby too. No, I hadn’t planned on it. Certainly not in this circumstance. I definitely hadn’t worked my mind around all the changes my body and my life would go through. But I was still happy. Still glad my baby was here.

If I had to be happy alone, I would be. I’d be happy enough for two people.

Hell, a whole army.

Almost daring him to speak, I cupped my belly. Although the gesture was still foreign, it was becoming more natural every day.

He watched my fingers spread over that growing life inside me and his mouth drew into a tight line. “Is it mine?”

I couldn’t have heard him correctly. It was not possible that this jackass I’d slept with enough times to make a baby—to make half a dozen babies truthfully—was asking if I’d slept with another man.

To my credit, I attempted to answer like a rational person. A simple “yes” would’ve sufficed.

Instead, I picked up the beautiful bouquet of flowers my brother had bought me to celebrate the truck and tossed them at Rory’s head, vase and all.

He ducked. Just barely. And when I let out a sob at what I’d done to my gorgeous flowers, he moved forward to collect them off the ground for me. His pants were wet. Petals clung to his shoes, his shirt. But he still bent to collect them all, holding up a hand when I stepped forward to help.

So, I buried my face in my hands and wept like an idiot.

I was still crying when I heard the clink of the vase being set aside and the thud of his footsteps. I didn’t fight him when he enveloped me in his arms, because that was where I most wanted to be.

Always.