Page 45 of The Final Faceoff
“Statistically, that is becoming more likely by the second.”
“I’m going to maim you, Leif Crawford,” she threatens.
“You’re feisty when you wake up,” I muse. “Should I be concerned?”
“I should be feisty. I just woke up to find out my best friend is treating my pregnancy like a science project.”
I lift my hands, all innocence. “It’s called being prepared, Hailey Jean. No, now it’s actually fitting to call you Hailey Bean, you know, you have a bean inside you?” I gesture vaguely at her stomach.
She squints at me, pure exhaustion and judgment written all over her face. “Did you just turn my name into a bad dad joke?”
“Would you prefer Hailey Be-two? Since you’re technically two people now?”
She groans, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut up?—”
“—you’ll throw up on me, I know, I know.” I lean back in my chair, smug. “But as your designated pregnancy guru, I feel like it’s my duty to make sure you experience all the joys of this special time too, including my top-tier wordplay.”
She glares, pointing a finger at me. “If you call me Hailey Be-three next, I’m ending you.”
She yawns, stretching again, but this time, the movement is slower. Like it takes more effort than it should. I narrow my eyes, watching her closely.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she mumbles, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly. “Just hungry, I think.”
I nod toward the kitchen. “George left some snacks and leftovers. I can heat something up.”
She nods, pushing herself up, but the second she shifts, I see it. The slight change in her face, the way her expression falters for just a fraction of a second.
And then, she freezes.
“Hailey—”
She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.
Oh, fuck.
Before I can even process it, she’s scrambling off the couch, making a break for the bathroom. I’m on my feet in an instant, but she’s already halfway there, nearly tripping over the stupidly expensive rug in her rush.
The sound of retching echoes through the penthouse, and I grimace, following after her. I stop in the doorway, watching her hunch over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall.
“Well,” I say, arms crossed. “That escalated quickly.”
She groans, flipping me off without looking.
I sigh, stepping inside, grabbing a hair tie from the counter. Without a word, I crouch behind her and gently gather her hair, twisting it into a loose ponytail. She leans forward again, heaving, and I rub slow circles on her back.
“This is not good. I hate puking,” she mumbles between breaths.
“I know.” I keep my voice low, soothing. “But it’ll pass in a few weeks.”
She lets out another miserable sound, resting her forehead against her arm. “I take back everything I said. You can read the pregnancy books.”
I smirk. “Damn right I can.”
She groans again, reaching blindly for me, and I let her grip my wrist, her fingers tight.
I watch her, the way her body shakes slightly, the way she leans into me like I’m the only solid thing in the room. I don’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean for us—what lines it blurs, what boundaries it shatters—but I know one thing for sure.
