Page 60 of The Final Faceoff
Leif leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching me with the kind of infuriating patience that tells me he already knows he’s right.
“Reading material that I’m assuming you’ve been ignoring.”
“Well, you’re so good at giving me the summary that I figured?—”
“Really, that’s your excuse?” He gives me a look. The look. The one that meanstry again, Hailey.The one that makes me want to say something so wildly off-topic that he forgets whatever we were talking about.
I cross my arms and look at him, so sure of myself when I respond, “Not an excuse. It’s a strategy. Instead of cramming all the horrifying facts into my brain at once and then spending weeks spiraling, I learn as I go. Saves me from my own anxiety.” I pause, then add with exaggerated generosity, “Which, in turn, saves you from my anxiety. You’re welcome.”
“Well, look at you being so nice to me,” he deadpans, but his mouth quirks at the corner like he’s fighting a grin. “Since I’m your self-appointed pregnancy encyclopedia, would you like to know what happens at thirteen weeks? I mean, three more days and you’re at fourteen, so you might as well get all the information for both now.”
I groan and throw my head back against the cushion. “Is it worse than random backaches and nausea that ambushes me when I so much as think about certain foods?”
Leif tilts his head, faux-considering. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Your definition of worse.”
I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “Just rip off the Band-Aid, Crawford.”
He doesn’t even try to hide his grin this time. “Your blood volume is increasing, which means your heart is working harder. Your baby is forming vocal cords, though it probably won’t be screaming at you for another six months. Oh, and—” He clears his throat, all faux-casual. “Your libido is about to skyrocket.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He nods, completely unbothered. “Yup. Increased blood flow, hormone shifts, all that. Lots of women get, you know, extra—” He waves his hand, searching for the right word. “—interested around now.”
I stare at him. “Tell me you did not just casually say I’m entering my horny trimester like it’s the weather forecast.”
Leif shrugs. “Just making sure you’re prepared.”
I cover my face with my hands. “God. I hate this.”
He nudges my knee with his. “You’re welcome for the educational moment.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “Please, stop reading pregnancy books.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, far too pleased with himself. “I’m your walking, talking, completely unbiased source of information. Aren’t you lucky?”
“Oh, yeah, so lucky,” I mutter, shifting on the couch again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my back hate me.
Leif watches me for a beat before he exhales through his nose and stands. “C’mon.”
I frown. “Where are we going?”
“You know where.”
Leif reaches for my legs, tugging them gently until they’re stretched out on the couch. Then he crouches beside me, his warm palms grazing my calves before his thumbs press into the tightest parts of my muscles.
I make a noise—something between a groan and a sigh, the kind of sound that should probably be reserved for much more private situations.
“No, I don’t know where,” I mumble as I melt into the cushions. “Are you taking me to an all-male strip club to see how I react? If my libido is at an all-time high?”
He snorts. “Not a bad idea. But no. I’ll leave that for next weekend—might even invite a friend or two.”
I crack one eye open. “You’re all heart.”
“Always.” His smirk lingers before he stands and reaches for my hands. “Come on. We’re going upstairs.”
