Page 88 of Worth the Heat
Isabella gasps. “What? No! What happened? That’s not like her. She had to have been provoked. Is she in trouble? Do you want me to go too? I can’t guarantee I’ll keep my mouth shut, so tell me now what version of me you want. Shy and quiet, new stepmom navigating the waves, or feral mom who will cut a bitch for offending her daughter.”
I let out a loud bark of laughter as I back out of the parking spot. “We should probably play it by ear, but I will likely pick the feral mom, just because I really want to see her in action.”
Isabella beams at me. “It’s a new position. I’m still learning the ropes.”
“Learning the ropes of how to be feral, how to be a mom, or how to cut a bitch?”
“All of the above, I guess,” she says with a snicker. “Watching Arianna and Alex’s wife Natalie have given me a crash course in all three, but starring as the main character is still new to me. Digging the role, though.”
I grab her hand, bringing it to my lips. “Good to hear,Mami.”
Isabella coughs, dragging her hand away to hit her chest. “Swallowed wrong.”
My eyes narrow as I watch her in my periphery. She’s off. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something is definitely weird about her behavior.
I make idle chitchat as I carefully drive home, but when I pull into the garage, I quickly snatch the bag out of her hands before she can react. I know it’s something about whatever is in here.
“Sebastian, wait!” Isabella shouts, causing me to pause. Her gaze is intense, her eyes imploring me to stop. “I’m not sure if you’re ready for what’s in there.”
“The only thing I can think of that I might not be ready for would be a butt plug for me, and I highly doubt our grocery store has that …” I trail off as I see a look in her eyes. Holy shit. I rip open the bag, staring at the two-pack of pregnancy tests. My eyes whip to hers. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know,” she frets, wringing her hands in her lap. Tears fill her eyes as she chews on her bottom lip. “I’m late, but my period isn’t always like clockwork. Then again, we’ve been pretty lax about birth control.”
I chuckle as I lean across the center console, sliding my hand around to bracket the back of her neck. “We haven’t been lax. We’ve been consciously going without. I’ve been trying to get you pregnant for months, baby. Now that I think of it, your tits are bigger than normal. I chalked it up to your period starting, but hopefully it means Camila will stop bugging us about giving her a sibling.”
She gives me a watery smile and light chuckle. “How can you be so nonchalant? If I am pregnant, this changes everything.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t change a damn thing about how I feel about you. How you feel about me. How happy we are. I’ve got all the love to give, sweetheart. And if you aren’t pregnant, I’m still the happiest I’ve ever been, and I’ll continue trying to knock you up every chance I get.”
“I do enjoy the trying part,” she whispers, leaning in to peck my lips.
“Let’s go see if we’re still in the trying portion of conception, or if we’ve moved into the production part.”
I whisk Isabella inside our house, directly to the bathroom, only remembering to leave when she shouts at me that she’d like to pee in private.
Five minutes later, a tiny screen flashes the best word I’ve ever seen.
Pregnant.
ISABELLA
FOUR YEARS LATER
“Mom!” A loud screech is immediately followed by the slamming of a bedroom door. “Keep Nico outta my room!”
I sigh as Camila stomps down the stairs. I hear her huffing as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, where I’m quietly preparing dinner. Looking over my shoulder, I see my furious daughter, holding her favorite white sweater. Well, a sweater that used to be white.
“Oh dear,” I murmur, logging the lovely colored lines that have been drawn all over one side of the fabric. Without looking, I can already assume my permanent markers, locked in an upper cabinet, will be gone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Mom,” Camila whines, tears cresting her eyelids. “I wanted to wear this Monday for picture day at school. Why does he always go for my stuff?”
What I’d like to say is that Camila’s room is a disaster, and it’s easy to destroy things when they’re left on the floor. Or that Camila leaves her door open, instead of shutting it and using the child lock we installed for this very reason.
“Your brother loves you so much, baby girl,” I tell her quietly instead. It’s not a lie. From the moment he was born, Nico Sebastian Garcia only had eyes for his big sister. For the weeks that we suffered through horrendous colic, and the nights where cutting molars was excruciating, only Camila could settle Nico down.
A loud scoff. “I know he loves me, Mom. But I don’t want him in my room.”
“Then lock the door,” I say, aggravation evident in my tone as I clench my teeth.
