My head is spinning, and I’m feeling like I could use a moment alone to get my bearings—to process this—because saying it out loud to him feels so much more real. “I just found out at the hospital and have been trying to find the courage to tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t do this on purpose.” He blinks at me. “I swear I’m on birth control, but apparently barfing it up for two days straight isn’t ideal.”

His hand slides over his stubbled chin as he sucks in a breath. Oh god, he’s not saying anything, and my anxiety is growing exponentially, doubling.

Like cells.

Fuck. What is wrong with my head?

“You’re just so young.” Not the words I wanted to hear right now.

“Good God. You act like I’m a clueless teenager! I’m twenty-five! Stop treating me like I’m a child. That excuse is insulting.” I huff out an agitated breath. “I think I need a night alone to just process this.”

He scowls at me and still says nothing, so I just keep talking. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s what I need. And you do too.”

I’m starting to spin out. I stare down and rifle through my oversized purse to find his painkillers, feeling a full-on freak-out like I’ve never had coming on. My hand wraps around something long and slender and I pull out . . . a carrot?

My eyes water and panic rises, and I just toss it in the back seat.

“Was that a carrot?” is the first thing Cade says to me since I told him I was pregnant with his baby.

An excellent sign, to be sure.

I finally find the bottle of painkillers Winter dropped in the room before leaving with a gentle goodbye. “Here.”

“Why is there a carrot in your purse?”

Jesus. I’ve really broken his brain. Who can blame him though?

“I’m going to sleep at the main house tonight.”

He blinks. “Like hell you are.”

I jump out of his truck, taking the few strides over to my Jeep before clambering into the driver’s side seat. Am I handling this well? Probably not. But I’m having a moment, and all he’s doing is scowling at me and asking me about the carrot.

Cade grabs the door of my Jeep before I can close it and glares at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m very aware that I’m not handling this well.”

“We need to talk,” is all he says, and it sounds so foreboding that dread settles in my stomach.

“I need a night alone. To gather my thoughts. So do you.”