Page 41 of Uxpectedly Ever After

"Birthing options," she echoes, running her finger along the edge of the page as I flip through. I can't tell if she's impressed or horrified. "You researched birthing options."

"Well, yeah." I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like I've overstepped in a big way. "I know it's your body and ultimately your choice, but I thought we should at least know all the options."

A strange expression crosses her face. Not anger or annoyance like I expected, but something softer. Almost... touched? "I can't believe you did all this."

"Too much?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. Clover's the one who color-codes and organizes everything from her to-do lists to her damn underwear drawer. If anyone should appreciate this level of organization, it's her. But maybe I've crossed a line.

"No, it's..." She traces a chart showing fetal development by week. "It's actually amazing, Banks. I just—I didn't expect it."

Relief floods through me. I wanted to do this for her and do it in a way I knew she’d appreciate. That would meet her where sheis. That would make her see that I get her. That her little quirks are the things I like best about her and if she needs me to color code and put things in order, I’ll do it to make her happy. "I want to do this right, Freckles. All of it."

Her eyes lift to mine, that wall she usually keeps up between us nowhere to be seen. "You're really in this, aren't you? One hundred percent."

"One thousand percent," I correct, taking the binder and setting it aside so I can tug her closer. "This isn't some obligation for me. I want this. I want our baby. I want—"you, I almost say, but manage to swallow it back at the last second. Too much, too soon. "I want us to do this together."

She nods, that new softness still shimmering in her eyes, and leans up to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “Thank you,” she whispers, her breath warm against my mouth. “For the binder. For being here. For… everything.”

It feels like the most important moment we've had since she told me she was pregnant. Like we're finally on the same page, building something together instead of dancing around each other.

Naturally, that’s when I go and screw it up.

"For fuck's sake, Banks, I can carry a case of water on my own!" Clover's face is flushed as she yanks the plastic-wrapped package from my hands. "I'm pregnant, not helpless!"

It’s been three days since the ultrasound, and apparently I’ve hit my limit of ‘overprotective boyfriend’ behavior. Not that we’ve slapped any official label on what we are. But I’m the one sleeping next to her at night, holding her hair back when morning sickness hits, driving her to doctors’ appointments, cooking her dinner so she remembers to eat, and researching crib safety standards while she dozes on my chest.

So yeah, ‘boyfriend’ feels pretty accurate.

“You know the doctor said not to lift anything heavy,” I argue, reaching for the water again. “And that’s at least twenty pounds.”

"Which is well within the guidelines you put in your own damn binder!" She sidesteps me, hauling the case onto the kitchen counter with a thud that makes me wince. "This is getting ridiculous. You're smothering me."

"I'm looking out for you. There's a difference."

"Is there? Because it feels a lot like you don't think I'm capable of taking care of myself." Her hands go to her hips in that stance I've come to recognize as Clover digging in for a fight. "You've been on my ass every five minutes since the ultrasound.Don't lift that. Don't eat that. Don't work so late. Drink more water. Take your vitamins."

My gut twists at how she’s throwing my words back in my face, but hell if I can back down. “Those things matter,” I say, keeping my tone as even as I can. “And you’re working too damn hard. Theo would understand if you cut back. Standing on your feet all night can’t be good for the baby.”

Her eyes flash. “The baby is the size of a raspberry, Banks. Standing behind a bar for a few hours isn’t going to hurt it.” She flings her arms up in frustration. “And who’s paying the bills if I cut my hours, huh? My rent won’t pay itself. My bar fund sure as hell isn’t going to magically appear.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut before I say what I'm actually thinking—that I'd happily support her, that I want her to move in with me permanently, that I've been scoping out houses in our price range because the apartment I've been paying for but not living in for months is too small for the three of us, and her place isn't much bigger. That I'm in love with her and want to give her everything.

Instead, what comes out is:

“Someone has to think about our kid’s safety,” I snap—and immediately realize I’ve fucked up. Clover’s eyes go wide, then narrow to lethal slits.

"Is that what you think?” she demands, voice trembling at the edges. “That I can't be trusted to take care of myself or our child?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" Her voice breaks, and my heart freefalls when I see tears in her eyes. Clover James, who never cries, not even when she cracked two ribs slipping on ice last winter. "Because it sure as hell sounds like you don't trust me."

"Clover—"

"No." She holds up a hand to cut me off, but I'm more focused on the other one, which has curled protectively over her stomach in a way that makes my throat tight. "I need a minute."

She slips past me and heads toward her bedroom—ourbedroom, as I've come to think of it, even though it doesn’t feel like that right now.

I give her five minutes, barely, before I follow. I can't stand the distance between us, especially not when she's pissed at me. The bedroom door is cracked open—a good sign, since she would have shut it if she really wanted to be alone.

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