Page 115 of Beloved Beauty

Warm arms wrap around my waist. A kiss lands at the curve of my neck, slow and lazy.

“Something smells good,” he says against my skin.

“It’s dinner. Not me.” I’ve been panic-sweating for about eight hours.

Alex chuckles, pulling me back against his chest. “Both smell good.”

He nuzzles my neck again, fingers sliding over my stomach—unaware of how that small gesture makes my brain short-circuit.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice casual, but I hear the edge of curiosity underneath.

“Yep. Totally fine.” Boy, that’s a lie.

Dinner is easy—sautéed chicken with roasted sweet potatoes, plus a side of my best effort at pretending to be chill. I even threw in steamed broccoli so his protein-carb-veggie ratio wouldn’t suffer just because I’m emotionally unraveling.

But I’m quiet. Too quiet. And Alex doesn’t miss much when it comes to me.

Halfway through his second bite, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, brows drawn low. “All right. What’s going on, favorite?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Magnolia––”

His voice is low. Steady. Serious enough to make me glance up. “Tell me.”

I drop my fork. Take a breath. And say it.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

There’s a beat of silence. A full blink. Two.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m late… which tracks since your pull-out game has all the timing of a broken cuckoo clock.”

He leans back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair, grinning. “That one time did it?”

“You mean that one time on a kitchen counter during peak ovulation? Like we were daring fate to show us what she could do.”

His smile softens. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

Alex rubs a hand over his jaw. “You need to take a test.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Got that covered.”

I push back from the table, heart thudding now that the decision’s made. He follows as I head to the en suite bath, open the cabinet under the sink, and pull out the pharmacy bag.

“Three different kinds,” I say, holding it up. “Because I believe in overkill.”

I line them up on the counter like I’m prepping a science experiment. Three different brands. Three different designs. All ready to crush or confirm my timeline.

Alex leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me as though he wants to help but also very much doesn’t want to interfere.

“I need privacy,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest and nudging him back.

“You sure? You didn’t need privacy the night we may have conceived this child.”

---