Page 35 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Nothing sounds right. Nothing feels big enough for news that's literally going to change his life forever.

By the time Banks's shift ends, I'm a complete nervous wreck. I've paced so many circles in my living room I'm surprised the downstairs neighbors haven’t banged on their ceiling. I've stress-baked enough cookies to feed half the city. I’ve thrown up at least four times, and I've changed my outfit so many times I lost count before saying screw it and putting on the same damn leggings and oversized sweater I started with.

The sound of his key in the lock makes my heart climb into my throat, and for a second I think I might throw up again.

The door swings open, and there he is—all six-foot-two of firefighter perfection, still in the joggers he wears to the gym that show offeverythingand a navy blue PFD t-shirt that stretches across those ridiculous shoulders of his. The same shoulders Idug my nails into six weeks ago, which is exactly how we ended up in this mess.

His usual easy smile dies the second he sees me. "What happened? Are you okay?"

The immediate concern in his voice is enough for my stupidhormonesto go into overdrive and make me want to both melt into a puddle at his feet and cry while he feeds me cookies and kisses me until I can’t breathe.

This is exactly what Navy was talking about—the way he's always looking out for me, always ready to jump in front of a metaphorical (and probably literal) bullet if I need him to. Even when I insist I don't need anyone. Even when I've pushed him away every chance I get because I'm terrified of how he makes me feel.

"I’m okay," I say, but my voice comes out all wobbly and pathetic. "But we need to talk."

He sets his gym bag down slowly, his eyes locked on my face like he's trying to figure out what's wrong before I even say it. "Okay."

"Maybe you should sit down for this."

He doesn't budge an inch. "I'm fine right here."

Of course he is. The man has never once in his life done what I've asked him to.

I take a deep breath that's supposed to be calming but doesn't help at all. Every word I came up with, every speech I've practiced all day has completely vanished from my brain. All that's left is the terrifying truth I need to spit out before I lose my nerve completely.

"I'm pregnant," I blurt out while he's bent over unlacing his boots, my fingers clasped together so hard my knuckles are white. "It's yours. Obviously."

Banks freezes with one boot half-unlaced like someone hit pause on him. For what feels like the longest moment of myentire life, he doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to breathe. Then, slowly, he straightens up, and his face is completely unreadable.

"You're pregnant," he repeats, his voice flat.

I nod, not trusting my voice to work.

"You're sure?" His eyes dart down to my stomach, then back up to my face.

"I haven’t gone to the doctor or anything, but I don’t think three tests, a missed period, and constant throwing up for the last two weeks are wrong." I wrap my arms around myself because I suddenly feel freezing cold despite the fact that it's like eighty degrees in my apartment. "From the night of the storm."Way to state the obvious, Clover. It's not like you've been sleeping with anyone else. Or Banks again."We didn't... You didn’t wear a condom and I’m not on birth control."

The silence stretches so long I swear I can hear the seconds ticking by on the clock in the kitchen. His continued silence feels like a rejection, like he's mentally mapping the fastest route to the door and out of my life forever. I can literally feel my walls going back up, protecting me from what I know is coming next.

"You don't have to be involved," I say, the words rushing out so fast they trip over each other. "I know this isn't what you signed up for when you moved in. I just... I thought you deserved to know before you leave next week. I'm not asking for anything."

Something flashes across his face—shock? Anger? Hurt? I genuinely can't tell, and it makes my stomach twist into another knot. It’s a whole damn pretzel factory in there right now.

"Is that what you really think of me?" His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him. "That I'd just walk away from this? From you? From our baby?" He takes a step closer with every question until he’s standing in front of me, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him.

The way he says "our baby" makes something in my chest break wide open.

Before I can respond, Banks moves with a suddenness that steals my breath. His hands slam against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. The impact makes me jump, but there's no fear—only a rush of heat that floods my body when he leans in close enough that I can feel his breath on my face.

What is it with us and walls?

Now’s not the time, Clover.

"Let me make something perfectly fucking clear," he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that turns my insides to liquid. "I don't walk away. Not from responsibilities, not from people I care about, and sure as hell not from the woman carrying my child."

His eyes burn into mine, fierce and unblinking. I'm trapped between the solid wall at my back and the wall of muscle that is Banks Priestly in front of me. I should feel cornered, threatened even. Instead, my treacherous body is practically humming with awareness, my nipples tightening painfully against my shirt as his scent—fresh air and smoke and pure Banks—overwhelms me.

"You think I don’t want to be here?" he continues, his face so close to mine our noses almost touch. “I can't sleep unless I know you're safe. I don’t hold your hair back when you're sick or help you study or watch those stupid fucking shows with you because I have to. For someone so smart, you can be incredibly fucking dense, Clover."

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