Page 47 of The Final Faceoff
Another glare.
“Ginger ale?”
I groan.
There’s a beat of silence before he exhales dramatically. “Would you like me to burn this bathroom to the ground and pretend this never happened?”
I blink at him. “Actually . . . yes. That one.”
He nods solemnly. “Noted.”
And then, like this is routine, he disappears for a second and returns with a glass in hand.
I squint at him. He stares back, unbothered. “You have to stay hydrated, babe.”
“But do I have to?” I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe coffee?—”
“We already discussed coffee, and wine,” he says so gently. “I know it’s a lot to adjust to.”
He makes me take the tea and then hands me a stick of ginger gum. “You need this.”
“You have a whole system,” I mutter.
“I have an entire strategy,” he corrects. He sets the toothbrush down, uncaps the mouthwash, and hands it to me. “Now drink. I refuse to let this break you.”
I shoot him a look. “You refuse?”
“That’s right.” His arms cross over his chest, his mouth twitching like he’s barely restraining a smirk. “I’m drawing a line. You are not losing a battle to your own body. Not while I’m here.”
“Your level of competency is disturbing.”
I take a slow sip of water, letting it settle before popping a piece of gum into my mouth. The sharp burst of ginger—which I hate—does little to mask the lingering nausea, but it’s something.
“I accept this insult with honor,” he says, his tone mockingly grand, like he’s just been knighted for exceptional patience.
I drag a hand down my face, exhausted. “You could quit,” I mumble. “No one would blame you if you just—” I wave a hand vaguely toward the door, too tired to finish the thought. Leif doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
Instead, his gaze softens, something unreadable flickering behind it before he says, simply, “I’m not quitting—not on you. Never.”
Leif watches as I push up from the bathroom floor, bracing a hand on the counter like I’ve just emerged from some kind of brutal endurance trial.
“Kitchen?” he asks, already knowing the answer and pushing. “You have to do it, Hailey Bean. If not for you, for the . . . grape, was it?”
I roll my eyes, because his fixation with the size of the baby is endearingly annoying. Yet, I follow him down the hall. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the under-cabinet lighting, making it feel oddly intimate for a space that is not designed for coziness. It’s sleek, modern—probably costs more than what I make in a year. In no time, Leif’s pulling open the fridge and grabbing a sleek, black bento box.
I lower myself onto a stool at the island, resting my elbows on the cool surface, watching as he starts laying out the options like some kind of nutrition guru.
“The chef left this for you,” he says, popping open one of the compartments. “And before you reject it on principle, let me just say: it is pregnancy-approved and designed to prevent further, uh, bathroom incidents.”
“Is that the official term?” I arch a brow, rolling the gum between my teeth. “You know it’s going to fail. You two should just give up on me.” I sigh, leaning my head back against the cool tile. “I shouldn’t be eating until my stomach settles. No matter what you do, you’ll lose this one, Crawford.”
I peek up at him, expecting frustration, but all I get is that infuriating, unwavering patience. Then, after a long pause he gestures toward the small spread in front of me.
There’s a neat row of cucumber and carrot sticks, some kind of whole-grain crackers, a handful of nuts, and these little bite-sized energy balls that look suspiciously like they contain chia seeds—probably meant to balance my blood sugar or something else they read about while Leif is secretly becoming the world’s most prepared almost-uncle—or whatever title he’ll take when the tiny creature is born.
There’s also a small container of diced mango, a hard-boiled egg, and—because this is still me we’re talking about—two squares of dark chocolate off to the side, like a peace offering.
I stare at it all. Then I look at Leif.
