I’m lying in bed, wrapped in Lyle’s arms, both of us gloriously naked and still basking in the aftermath of a pre-dawn fuck-a-thon when we’re jarred awake by an obnoxious pounding on the door.

This type of wake-up call is not something I will ever get used to. Lyle and I are going to have to find a place of our own sooner rather than later, before Anika gives me a freaking heart attack. That woman has no respect for boundaries.

“Go away,” my grumpy husband shouts, reaching to the side of the bed for a shoe and blindly flinging it in the direction of her grating voice.

It connects with the wood with a loud thud.

“Open this fucking door, or I will break it down.” The locked doorknob rattles as she gives it a good jostle from the outside.

“That truce was short-lived,” I grumble as I drag myself up to sitting.

“There’s no stopping her when she’s worked up like this.” The frown he aims at me doubles as an apology, as he pulls a rumpled tee over his head. “Throw some clothes on,” he suggests, eyeing my bump, before stumbling toward the dresser for pajama pants.

“I’m not joking.” Anika’s fist meets the door again, banging three times in rapid succession.

“No one thought you were, Godzilla. Give us a minute to put some clothes on, for fuck’s sake.”

I grab one of Lyle’s hoodies from the desk chair and throw it on with the nearest bottoms I can find, a pair of his ratty sweats that are balled up on the floor.

Keeping it real classy, I think to myself as I give him the nod to open the door.

“Good morning,” Lyle sings as she storms right past him with an all-too-familiar iPad clasped to her chest.

“Start talking,” she barks, holding the tablet out for our examination.

Tears mount in my eyes and the breath whooshes right out of my body when I catch sight of the image on that screen: Lyle and I walking out of Dr. Ruby’s office, staring adoringly at what is without question an ultrasound photo. “Shit…”

“Well,” Lyle says, studying the screen for an obscene amount of time. He’s irritatingly calm. “Guess the cat’s outta the bag.”

“The cat’s outta the bag?” Anika repeats, aghast. “So, you’re telling me this isn’t a doctored photo?”

Bile churns in my stomach as my husband looks her right in the eye and answers with a very matter of fact, “That’s correct.”

The iPad takes off flying across the room, denting the sheetrock and shattering across the tile floor.

I jump back, shocked by the outburst.

“Was that really necessary?” Lyle’s eyes pan briefly to the mess then back to the raging brunette breathing fire no more than two feet in front of him.