The doctor said it was a recipe for a persistently sore throat and a complete loss of my voice.
Freddie laughed as I shut the lid to the laptop and packed my equipment with a huff.
“I’m just saying, Elle. You’re allowed to have a crush on your husband.”
I tried to speak, but I could only wag a finger. Fortunately, it was my index instead of one far more expressive. I stormed from the room.
A crush on my husband?
That was the most ridiculous, idiotic, absolutely absurd accusation in the world.
I did not have a crush on Lachlan Reed.
…I was in love with him.
And that realization sent me sprawling for the closest bathroom before my stomach, mind, heart, and every other part of me detonated.
I loved him.
And it had been obvious to everyone except me.
He had somehow become a permanent fixture in my life and photography. So many of my pictures included his virtue-stealing dimples. It was like I’d deliberately captured scenes with his eyes, just to marvel at how they were greener than even a hundred yards of grass.
Why didn’t I realize it—especially after our night at the charity gala? None of my worldly travels or once-in-a-lifetime pictures had thrilled me as much as our night spent entwined, hidden beneath the stars.
I fell for him so hard I probably left a crater on the fifty-yard line.
Lachlan was right. I did love him before the sunset of our third date.
Worse, I loved him ahead of schedule.
Oh, this was bad.
…Or maybe something good?
But it wasn’t anything I could figure out in the middle of training camp, not when I was exhausted, sick, and still walking on eggshells to duck Peter whenever he got close. I left early, and not a moment too soon. The only reason I could drag my butt through the door was by bribing myself with a nap.
I dropped my purse on the floor and collapsed on the couch.
At least the baby and I were in it together.
Life was about to get complicated. Not only was I pregnant, not only did I somehow fall in love with my husband, I was stuck in the middle of a potentially season-ending conspiracy that would ruin the team.
I never used to feel like a fish out of water, but somehow life had trapped me in a net of my own fears and doubts.
But Lachlan could untangle me.
If only I knew how he’d react to my pregnancy.
Hell, I hadn’t broken free of the shock yet.
But It wasn’t like my life would be ruined, just changed. I could still take a baby hiking. They made those contraptions that strapped to mother’s backs. And all kids like the ocean. The Rocky Mountains were beautiful for any age. I had a lot of plans for my life—everything visiting the Great Barrier Reef and seeing the pyramids and hiking old Inca trails.
Maybe having a baby wouldn’t stop that?
Maybe instead of trekking the world, taking pictures for my Instagram and selling the good ones to periodicals and news outlets…I could take some photos of my family.
It seemed so cliché, a little kid making faces in front of a Hawaiian waterfall or pushing on the Tower of Pisa. But when I imagined a little girl in pigtails or a boy who happened to look just like Sebastian, just a few shades darker?
It seemed…right. Especially if that imaginary picture included Lachlan.
As if he realized I thought about him, he texted me. I pulled out my phone and read the flurry of messages.
On my way over.
Want to see you.
NOT a date.
Unless it goes well.
Then I’m all yours
This man.
I answered with a winky face. Did they make an emoji that could tell an unsuspecting man that I was pregnant with his child? Might have helped.
But he had to know.
Except when I answered the door, I worried it wasn’t the best time. I smiled and let him inside.
It was the first time Lachlan didn’t return my grin.
“Hey.” He pulled me close for a kiss, but he grimaced when I accidentally bumped his ribs. He shrugged away my cautious touch. “I’m fine. Just sore from practice.”
I didn’t like that.
I searched for the bottle of Ibuprofen. Lachlan waved away the offered pills.
“Nah,” he said. “They injected me with a bunch of stuff after practice. I’m okay.”
A cold shiver nearly shattered my spine. I grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay, Elle. Nothing illicit. They wouldn’t do that.”
After what I’d seen? The photographs? The blackmail? Signing Cole Hawthorne to act as the team’s bounty hunter, hurting any player who crossed his path?
Hell no. I didn’t trust a damn thing they put into Lachlan’s body.
He collapsed on my couch, groaning as he sat on a wayward trinket. The worst one to sit on—a stylized comb with thick prongs.
“Knick-knack or hair supply?” he asked.
Neither. It was actually art—a comb crafted from a fork. I took it away before he poked his eye out.