12 Inches (A Secret Baby Dark Romance)(48)

But traveling across the US with Aidan made me realize that I didn’t want to kiss him goodbye.

I want him by my side—as a writer, and as a man.

Of course, there’s one more thing I haven’t told you, and I discovered it with ...



One test.

The kind of test you have to pee on. Yeah, that’s right; I’m pregnant. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Aidan’s baby is growing inside of my belly, but that’s what’s happening. And you know what? I couldn’t be any happier about it.

Still, I haven’t told Aidan yet. Why? I’m not sure… I guess I’m a bit nervous about what his reaction is going to be. I want him to be happy about it, as happy as I am, and deep down I know that’s what’s going to happen. But I can’t stop myself from worrying; what if this changes the way he feels about me? What if, instead of bringing us closer, this drives a wedge between the two of us?

So, yeah, I’ve been keeping this secret for a few days now. I guess I’m waiting for the perfect moment to tell him. We also haven’t decided if we’re going to keep collaborating as writers, so I’ll tell him when we figure that out.

I want to keep writing with him, but I know he still hasn’t reached a decision. Despite Cheryl urging me to pressure him, I don't want to do that. I know that if we keep working together, we can launch a few heavy hitters into the market and then… well, the sky’s the limit. But he’s still on the fence between going back to modeling and assuming his role as a writer, so I want to give him all the time he needs to find out what he really wants.

Just between you and I, though, I think I already know what his decision is going to be. Soon enough, we’re going to be more than just co-authors.

We’re going to be one and only, and that for life.

I just know it.





20





Aidan





I hear my stomach growl and I look around the kitchen.

Fuck, I'm hungry. I need to resist the urge scarf down something I'll regret—like that box of cookies in the back of the cupboard.

I want to throw together something healthy. I grab spinach, pineapple, kale, green apple slices—don't look at me like that—a cup of ice, a splash of juice, and a scoop of protein powder, and throw all of the ingredients into the blender.

The machine purrs to life and I watch all of the contents liquefy, turning a deep shade of green.

What? Does this look disgusting? Well, let me tell you something. It isn't easy keeping this physique. If I've learned anything as a personal trainer it's that fitness starts in the kitchen.

As soon as I push the button to turn the blender off, I pour the contents into a glass, raise it to my lips, and before I can drink it, I hear a knock on the door.

Who the fuck is that? I'm not expecting anyone.

It can't be Abby; I know she's got a full plate this afternoon.

For a moment, I debate whether or not I should put a shirt on before answering the door, but fuck it. I decide that whoever this is can see me shirtless.

I open the door and I'm confused.

Standing in front of me is a man in a grey suit. His hair is slicked back, his hands are buried in his pockets, and he's rocking back on his heels. He seems to be in his early 30s … maybe? But if I'm fucking honest, I'm a terrible judge of age.#p#分页标题#e#

He seems vaguely familiar. But the important question is: what the fuck does he want?

"Can I help you?" I ask.

He eyes me up and down for a moment, and his lips crack into a smile.

"That's exactly what I'm here to find out," he says, pointing to my apartment. "Can I come in?"

I step aside and figure what the hell. If this guy is some sort of marketer—maybe trying to sell me on the latest Tupperware, or the next big pyramid scheme, or something—I guess it won't hurt to hear his spiel. I must be in a good mood because I decide to give the poor schmo a few minutes to say what he needs to say before giving him the boot. But something tells me he came here for a specific reason and that he knows who I am, in other words, that his visit isn't an accident.

"Sure, come in," I say, stepping back into the apartment. He follows after me, shutting the door behind him.

I grab my glass of liquefied greens.

"Want a drink?" I smile.

"No, I won't be here long."

There's something about the way he quickly dismisses me—and yes, I realize this glass of liquid green doesn't look appetizing, but still—that rubs me wrong.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I have an offer."

"Look, I'm not interested in buying Girl Scout cookies, or installing new cable, or trying to convince the Home Owners Association to install a solar system on the roof of this apartment, or whatever the fuck you're here to sell me—so thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass." My good mood is fading. I'm suddenly kicking myself for letting this guy in.