Baby & Bump (The This & That Series) by Brooke Moss Page B

over my belly?
                  Fletcher cleared his throat, jolting me out of my thoughts. “I do have a date. With…”
                  I stood up on my tippy toes without even meaning to.
                  “…Marisol.”
                  Thump. My heels landed back on the floor, and I pressed my lips together. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought I saw Fletcher wince. It was quickly covered up with a sympathetic smile that bordered on sheepish. It was almost like he wanted me to high five him. That Marisol, eh? She’s a hot one. Can you blame me?
                  “Oh!” My squeaky voice had returned. With a vengeance. “Right. So. That will be great. Or, fun. That will be great fun.” I stopped speaking, but he just looked at me. The longer the pause went on, the more self-conscious I felt, so my words came even faster. “Yeah…so, Marisolwilllovetheflowers,I’msureofit.Supergoodfuntimes.”
                  “You think so?” He handed two twenties to the old lady.
                  “’Course.” I didn’t bother to tell him that Marisol hated daisies. She said that they were cheap, and that if a man wanted to get laid, he’d better show up with flowers that cost at least seventy-five bucks.
                  We both grabbed our bags, and sauntered out into the sunshine. “Well,” I sighed, forcing my face to smile. “Good luck on your hot date.”
                  “Thanks.” He looked at me for a beat longer than necessary. “Listen, it was really cool running into you like this.”
                  My heart squeezed. I wanted to wrap myself around his leg and beg him to hang out with me listening to Elvis CDs and eating saltines all night. Instead of making out with Marisol on her overpriced Italian leather couch. But the nausea churning in my abdomen reminded me that having a raging crush on my OB wasn’t exactly rational. “Agreed. Have… have a good night, Fletcher.”
                  He waved, then strolled away, his backside practically glowing in his faded jeans. An image of those jeans crumpled in a heap on the hardwood floor next to Marisol’s bed flashed through my mind. Shaking my head, I turned in the other direction and shuffled back to my Volkswagon.
                  It was me, Elvis Presley, and the saltines tonight. Alone.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
                  “What the what?” Dropping the rubber spatula I’d been folding shredding zucchini into egg whites with, I pressed my palms to my pelvis.
    Marisol looked at me from across the stainless steel prep table. “Something wrong with your girlie bits, Lex?”
    I looked up at her. “Something, uh, tickles.”
    She shook her head, her glossy brown hair dancing. “There’s an ointment for that, you know.”
    I winced. “No. Not like that. Like inside .”
    Her expertly lined eyes widened. “Dear Lord, is it trying to get out? You’re hardly even fat.”
    The glass door to the Eats and Treats kitchen swung open. “Hi, sorry I’m late.” Candace flitted into the room in a pair of sweat pants and a tank top. “Aubrey cried when I left her with the babysitter, so I was late for yoga class. Then I didn’t have a clean shirt, so I had to scrounge around the laundry room for twenty minutes.”
    Marisol nodded pointedly at me. “You see what your life is going to become.”
    Candace ignored her and dropped some bags onto the table. “Sorry I’m late for our lunch date. Which begs me to ask why in the heck am I bringing lunch to you guys, when you run a catering company?”
    Marisol’s shoulders rose and fell. “I didn’t want to eat my own cooking.”
    “You’re so weird,” Candace scoffed. “I brought deli sandwiches. Lexie, I had no idea what to get for you, since the only thing that doesn’t make you sick is—” She stopped speaking when she