Page 114 of Play the Game
I grin, kissing the top of his head. “You love your brothers. And if they didn’t show up here every morning, how would I get breakfast?” A week or so after I moved in here when pregnancy started making sleep impossible and I started going into the office at a normal time instead of at the crack of dawn, one of Cooper’s brothers started stopping by every morning to make breakfast. Their reason was that Cooper can’t cook for shit, and no fucking way was the mother of their very first niece making her own breakfast. It’s my current favorite thing. My second favorite thing is how aggrieved Cooper pretends to be about it all.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” he grumbles.
I laugh. “You could, but first you have to explain to your whole family that you’ve been lying to them for, like, twenty-five years and that you are, in fact, an excellent cook.”
Cooper lifts his head. “One day, Rhodes. But not today.” Reaching down, he slides a hand up my leg, grinning lazily. “Wanna see how fast I can get you off before breakfast?” Hooking a finger in my underwear, he pulls them to the side, stroking through my slit and chuckling when I gasp. “Bet I can do it before Jordan barges in here demanding we make an appearance in the kitchen.”
“You can’t,” Jordan calls through the door. “Eggs are almost done. Get your ass to the kitchen.”
“You heard him my babies!” Cooper pulls his fingers away from me and lets out a strangled groan at the sound of Cece’s voice, and I just laugh because god, I love it here, even if I’m missing out on a morning orgasm. “Evan, honey, you’ve got a really big day today, so you need a good breakfast!”
“Do you have a big day today?” Cooper asks.
I shrug. “Not particularly. I mean, I just told you what I have going on. It’s a lot, but no more than normal. Come on, Cooper, be a good boy and eat breakfast with your brother and Cece, and later tonight I’ll let you do anything you want to me.”
Cooper’s eyes flash. “Anything?”
Leaning in, I press my lips to his in a kiss that’s slow, deep, and a little filthy. “Literally anything.”
Cooper runs a hand over my ass, squeezing. “Oh, it’s on, Rhodes. It’s so fucking on.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EVAN
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath when my stomach tightens again. Gripping the bottom of my chair, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing my muscles to unclench as I glance around the room, relieved that, across the table from me, my opposing counsel is currently engaged in a furious debate with his client and is paying me absolutely no attention.
It’s clear this idiot didn’t spend more than five minutes preparing his client for this deposition, and he’s now paying the price for it because the client absolutely folded in the face of my questioning. I’d feel smug and victorious except I have to pee, my back is killing me from sitting in the same position for so long, and I’ve been having these stupid Braxton Hicks contractions on and off all day that make me want to curl up into a ball on the floor.
Fuck it.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say loudly enough to get both of their attentions. Standing up as authoritatively as I can while also being thirty-seven weeks pregnant, I press my hands into the table and lean forward.
Both men look up at me, irritation crossing the lawyer’s face. “I’m sorry, did you need something? We’re trying to have a private conversation here.”
Tilting my head to the side, I study him, annoyance bubbling under my skin. “Were you? Because it looks to me like you were trying to figure out how to either salvage this trainwreck of a deposition or make it go away entirely since your client all but tanked your case, and I don’t think I need to be here for that.”
The attorney splutters out what I think is some kind of answer, although little of what he says resembles actual words. The baby decides this is the perfect moment to jab my bladder hard enough that I almost pee on the conference room floor, and annoyance turns to rage. I hold up a hand. “Save it. When you can extend me the courtesy of showing up here with a client who is actually prepared to answer my questions, you call me. Until then, you can see yourselves out.”
I grab my bag and my files and leave the room without a backwards glance. The receptionist for the conference floor gives me a sympathetic glance as I rush past her, dumping my bag and files on the reception counter and heading straight for the ladies’ room. Pushing through the doors, I make a beeline for one of the stalls.
Jesus motherfucking Christ, I hate being pregnant so fucking much. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how anyone does this more than once.
Finishing up, I start to stand, but before I can get all the way up, I feel a weird little snap, and suddenly liquid comes gushing out of me. I stare down at the toilet, confused for a full thirty seconds before the realization of what just happened slams into me like a truck, and I drop back down onto the toilet.
My water broke.
The contractions weren’t practice. They’re real.
Right on cue, my lower half seizes up, and I bend forward, slamming a hand to the wall of the bathroom stall and breathingthrough the pain that is suddenly radiating up my back and down my legs.
Oh, fuck no.
I’m in fucking labor. In a law firm bathroom.
I am officially in hell.
I reach for my phone—to do what, I’m not exactly sure—but then remember that it’s in my bag on the desk outside the bathroom. Standing on shaky legs, I take a few deep breaths, trying to remember what the doctor said about labor.
