The Pregnancy Pact. Kandy Shepherd
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he said, and closed his eyes. Maybe it was because he had not slept well last night, or maybe it was because he had eaten too much, or maybe it was because his world felt right for the first time in over a year, but with a sigh of contentment, he went to sleep.
When he woke up, she was sleeping curled up beside him. He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, being careful of her arm.
“Did we fall asleep?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Is our driver still here? Or did he take off with all my new stuff?”
Kade got up on one elbow. He could see the rickshaw over by the riverbank. When he craned his head, he could see the driver tapping earnestly at his phone with his thumbs.
“I haven’t paid him yet. He’s not going anywhere.” He slid his own phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “Holy, it’s four o’clock already.”
“It’s been a perfect day,” she said.
“Agreed. What was the best part for you? The shopping? I love the long dress.”
“I don’t have a single place to wear a dress like that,” she said. “I shouldn’t have bought it.”
“Yes, you should have. I want you to accept it as a gift from me. You can pay me back for the rest of that stuff if you insist—”
“Which I do!”
“But I want to buy that dress.”
“Why do you want to buy me a dress that I probably will never wear?”
“Wear it around the house. Put a movie on, and wear it to watch it. Eat popcorn in it.”
She laughed. “That seems eccentric and foolhardy. What if I got butter on it?”
“That’s what I liked about it. You know what it reminded me of, Jess?”
“No. What?” She held her breath.
“It reminded me of those paintings you used to do, the ones that were all swirling colors and amazing motion.”
“I haven’t thought about those for years,” she said.
“Save the dress and wear it to the unveiling of your first art show.”
She laughed a little nervously. “I’m not having a first art show.”
“But that’s what I’ve always wondered. Where did that part of you go?”
“I paint murals,” she said. “That’s my creative outlet.”
“I don’t think bunnies on walls do justice to your gifts,” he said.
“I don’t care what you think!” she snapped. “Sorry. Let’s not ruin the moment with you telling me how to live my life.”
She was right. This was not any of his business, not anymore. Maybe it never had been.
“Is there any ginger beef left?” he asked wistfully.
“No.”
“How about sizzling rice?”
And then the moment of tension was gone, and she laughed and passed him the container. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to go home to his place together. And then to say good-night with unnatural formality and to go to their separate bedrooms.
The next morning, they both got up. He ordered croissants again. She came out to eat one in the too-large shirt.
“I guess I should have been shopping for pajamas instead of evening dresses,” she said.
What kind of kettle of worms would it open up, he wondered, if he said he liked what she had on—his shirt—way better than pajamas?
“Are you coming back here after you’ve finished work?” he asked her. He was holding his breath waiting for her reply.
“I guess,” she said, and he heard in her voice the very same things he was feeling. What were they reopening, exactly, by living under the same roof? What were they moving toward? Were they putting a framework in place for their future relationship? Was it possible they could be one of those rare amicably divorced couples who were friends?
He hoped things would become clear in the next few days, because he did not like uncertainty. And at the moment, his future seemed murky, like looking into a most uncooperative crystal ball.
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