Page 22 of Wrong Number, Right Fox (Dial M For Mates #6)

JOSS

I was the size of a house. Or at least, it felt that way.

And unlike some people, I didn’t hate it. Not one bit. From the moment my belly started popping out, I’d embraced it like it was a second career. I grabbed those paternity clothes without hesitation. I wore shirts to work that said “baby bump” with a giant arrow pointing straight to my middle.

Was it business casual? Absolutely not. Did I care? Also absolutely not. I knew the CEO. What were they going to do about it?

And as the weeks ticked by, those shirts—those adorable, stretchy, meant-to-grow-with-you shirts—got tighter and tighter.

My belly extended further and further out until it was basically a shelf.

A warm, solid, curved shelf. When I sat down, I would rest my tea on it during movie nights with Garner, both of us pretending that was normal behavior while I marveled at the ridiculousness of it.

Still, the food things were weird. Not bad, just... unpredictable. I found things I liked, like citrus popsicles, instant oatmeal with peanut butter, and this one brand of canned peaches that tasted like childhood and gold, but part of me kept wondering if my normal food preferences would return.

Would I like coffee again? Would I like my diet soda again? Would I ever eat an egg and think it was the best thing ever again?

Only time would tell.

I stood in front of the mirror in our bedroom, checking myself over to make sure I was at least semi-presentable for work.

I’d had a few days recently where I didn’t even realize my socks didn’t match until someone at the office pointed it out.

In my defense, I couldn’t exactly see my feet anymore.

At this point, socks were a leap of faith.

“You ready for work?” Garner leaned against the doorway, a giant insulated lunch bag slung over one arm like he was heading off to camp.

We’d gone from last-minute takeout or grabbing random sandwiches to full-scale picnic lunches for a family of five.

It was easier that way, because what I thought sounded good in the morning had about a 50/50 chance of still sounding good at lunchtime.

So he packed a little of everything—cheese sticks, applesauce pouches, crackers, fruit, grilled chicken, yogurt. You name it, it was probably in there.

And somehow, despite all of that, I still ended up ordering pizza some days. Or a specific, very random salad that had to be from one particular café with exactly seven olives.

“You look adorable carrying that lunch sack,” I told him with a grin.

He winked. “Just getting ready for baby diaper bag days.”

If it had been anyone else, I might have thought they were teasing.

But not Garner. He meant it. He was full-on, all-in, completely invested in this fatherhood thing.

From midnight changings to laundry duty, from installing the car seat to learning baby sign language, he’d made it abundantly clear from day one that he wanted to be there —not as a helper, but as a parent.

And not because he thought he needed to do “his share,” but because he genuinely wanted to be involved. Fully. I was lucky. So lucky. So many omega fathers didn’t get that kind of partner. I knew that firsthand from my own childhood.

“Yeah, I’m almost ready,” I said, still facing the mirror. “Just noticed this shirt might have a soy sauce stain from when I got those dumplings last week. I didn’t soak it soon enough.”

He stepped further into the room. “Want me to grab you something else to wear?”

I blinked. That wasn’t the response I expected. I thought he’d say something like “Oh, it’s fine, no one will notice.” But he didn’t. He just turned and walked out of the room like a man on a mission.

When he came back, it wasn’t with a regular shirt. He held a gift bag like he’d been waiting for this moment, like this was his time to shine.

“What did you do?” I asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously and stepping closer.

“I maybe had something made for you.”

I pulled the tissue paper aside and reached in, tugging out a new paternity shirt, made of soft fabric, with a design that was clearly ordered custom. Right where my belly would stretch it widest was an embroidered image of a fox, curled up in a tight little ball, fast asleep.

I covered my mouth, instantly blinking back tears. “Okay, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“Because you hate it?” he asked, eyes wide.

I shook my head, voice choked. “No, you ridiculous alpha. Because it’s the sweetest thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Like, ever.” I sniffled. “And maybe fifty percent hormones.”

He came over and gently lifted the hem of my current shirt, pulling it up and over my head. He helped me into the new one, kissing my bare belly before covering it with the new cloth.

“It looks good on you,” he murmured, brushing his lips over mine.

His arms couldn’t quite get all the way around me anymore—not with the belly in the way, but that didn’t stop him from trying. And honestly, the effort? That did something to me. Something warm and deep and unshakably good.

I started to deepen the kiss, leaning into him, and then his alarm beeped in his pocket.

“Stupid work,” he muttered.

“I know.” I tried not to sound disappointed.

He kissed my forehead and stepped back, taking out his phone to shut off the beeping.

“That boss of yours,” I said, teasing, “they expect too much from you.”

He chuckled. “Right?”

I laced my fingers through his. “So… I’ve got a question for you.”

“I’m listening.” He stepped closer.

“Do you think maybe… we could call in sick today?”

His brow lifted. “Call in sick?”

“I mean, not really sick, but…” I shrugged. “Call in mated? Call in desperately wanting a day on the couch with my alpha? I don’t know. Just… us.”

Garner had his phone out in 2.5 seconds flat.

“Calling one of the VPs,” he said. “It’s a medical emergency.”

I blinked. “It is?” It was a needy pregnant omega emergency, but hardly medical.

“Yeah.” He kissed me again, his hand cradling my cheek. “My mate needs all the kisses I can give him. Immediate care required.”

He kissed me again, slower this time. Less of a brush, more of a promise.

“Immediate care required,” he murmured again, his voice deeper now, and I didn’t miss the flicker of heat behind his eyes. “My patient appears to be overheating.”

“Could be,” I said. “Might need to lie down. Doctor’s orders.”

“Lying down would be good,” he agreed, pressing his mouth to my throat, his stubble scraping just enough to make me shiver. “I should do a full-body exam. Strictly professional.”

I laughed breathlessly. “Sure. Because I’m definitely not your mate or anything.”

He growled low in his chest, and it hit me right in the spine.

“No, you’re mine. Completely.” His hand splayed wide across my belly, reverent and possessive. “And right now, I want you in our bed. Shirt on or off?”

“On,” I said immediately, touching the little fox curled across the front. “I like this one.”

His pupils dilated, like somehow that was what did it for him—the fact that I wanted to stay in this silly, sweet little shirt he’d had made. He kissed me again, slower this time, his hands guiding me back step by step.

“I like it too,” he said between kisses, “especially when you’re wearing it… and nothing else.”

He helped me onto the bed. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “I want to make you feel good.”

“You already do,” I whispered, and I meant it. Every inch of me ached, but not in a bad way.

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.

“I know,” I said. “You made me a fox shirt. That’s furever-level commitment.”

He laughed and pulled me in tighter, like he never wanted to let go, which worked for me. There was no place I’d rather be than in his arms.