Right now, I can’t believe how much love I have for this baby. This tiny little person I’ve never met has already become the center of my universe.
I was so distraught about it, but now I want it more than anything.
I look through blurry eyes, staring at the reflection in the mirror. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Once I get myself under control, I fix my makeup and exit the bathroom.
Wyatt stands in the middle of the room, wearing a pair of black dress pants and a white shirt. His dark hair is styled with little spikes on the top. His eyes roam my body, and a wicked gleam forms in his eyes.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“Look!” I place my hand over my stomach. “There’s a bump!”
His big hand covers mine. I take a deep breath, inhaling his musky cologne as I commit this very moment to memory. Standing in this gorgeous house in Tennessee together with Wyatt’s hand and mine both covering our baby.
Wyatt looks down and then up to me. Pride, love, and happiness fill his face. He moves both his hands to encompass my stomach and then drops to his knees. His lips press against my dress as he kisses my stomach. “I already love you, and I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with your mama.” He looks at me, and I cover my mouth with my hand. “So, you keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll make sure I keep working on her.”
The tears I had smothered before fill my vision. He rises so we’re eye to eye. “Wyatt.” I place my hand on his chest.
“I’m going to find a way to keep you here, Angie. If you’re going to leave me, you better be ready for the fight of your life.” His hands cup my face. “Because I’m not letting you walk away, not without layin’ it all out. I won’t say anything else. Words are just words, baby. It’s the action behind those words that matter.”
“Your words aren’t just words.” He presses his forehead against mine. “Your words are your truth.”
“And my heart is yours.”
And mine is yours. But I can’t say it. The words are stuck in my throat. But they’ve never felt more true.
THIS LAST MONTH HAS BEEN amazing. Wyatt and I have settled into being a couple. He works at the ranch, I’m at the bakery three days a week, and we have our nights together. I still fall asleep in his arms after we wear ourselves out with all the sex.
Today, though, I’m in a planning session at the bakery with the old biddies of Bell Buckle.
“Angie can’t march in there and grab Presley,” Mrs. Townsend says with exasperation.
“Maybe she can fake some kind of labor pains!” Mrs. Rooney says.
Mrs. Townsend’s head falls in her hand. “She’s not even that far along! How would she have labor pains?”
“Right,” Mrs. Rooney agrees. “Moving on.”
All I’ve been doing is sitting quietly and eating cupcakes. I think I’ve figured out their process, though. One of them throws out an idea, two of them talk about it back and forth, the fourth explains why it’s dumb, and then they all move on. It’s hilarious and exhausting. All in all, it’s not a bad gig.
Of course, I would much rather be spending the day with Wyatt. Yesterday we went back out on that stupid Gator thing as he showed me more of the property. We walked along the creek that’s between his and the Townsend’s property where we had a picnic, and then he showed me why living in the country is great for fooling around.
We definitely couldn’t have had sex like that outside in the city. Well, not without an audience.
I’m enjoying our newfound sex life. According to the book of horrors, I’m only going to get hornier, which is the silver lining to all this. Wyatt doesn’t seem to mind, and I’ve told him to enjoy it while he can.
The only thing I have to do is address the elephant in the room—my leaving. He hasn’t brought it up, but then neither have I. I know we need to talk about everything, yet I haven’t found a good time. I’m not sure if I should go to Erin first or Wyatt. The last thing I want is to sever my ties to the bakery, only to find out that he doesn’t want more with me.
So, I let it linger.
But today is our twenty-week ultrasound. We’ll get to see the nugget and hopefully find out what the sex is.
I’m hoping after we get through that and Presley’s bridal shower next week, we can iron out our future, because the idea of leaving him . . . cripples me.
I glance at the ladies sitting around and decide to interject. “Why don’t I tell her I need her to run an errand with me?” I offer up, and they all laugh.
Another idea gets thrown out and dismissed right away.