“Does your family live here in Charleston?”

“They do,” I say. “My parents live in Ansonborough—Wentworth Street—and my brother lives over on Queen, near Harleston Village.”

Julia’s grin grows wistful. “Must be nice having everyone so close.”

“It is. Although sometimes it gets a little intense. We see a decent amount of each other. I work a lot, so that tends to get in the way of family time.”

“Always so busy,” she says, eyes on my face.

We look at each other for a beat. Then another. Her eyes are still swollen, but they’re brighter now than when I first arrived.

My God is she a beautiful girl. I’d really, really like to pull her onto my lap right now and make her feel better the only way I know how. It’s been a week since we fucked last—not that I’m counting—and I’m craving her. Her scent and her honesty and her surrender.

I’m always craving this woman.

I spear a hand through my hair instead. Doing my best to ignore the sudden heaviness in my groin. My dick is what got us here in the first place.

Must. Ignore.

Lord Jesus, when are you gonna take this wheel?

“Next appointment. I’ll be there. Let me know when it is,” I grunt.

“Okay,” Julia says, smoothing the fabric of her leggings over her thighs. “It’s on my calendar. I’ll double check and get back to you.”

Those thighs. They were wrapped around me on Wednesday, all smooth skin and strong muscle, Julia’s head falling back as I rocked into her tight, hot cunt. My teeth on her nipple, her fingernails in my back, my thumb on her clit.

She was pregnant. We just didn’t know it yet.

“I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. I need a cigarette. Possible castration as well. This woman makes me regress into a horn-dog teen with blackout level desire, and I need some air if I’m going to stick to our no-hate-sex agreement.

Julia stands, too. Leads me to the door, wrapping her arms around her chest. She winces.

“You okay?” I ask, stopping with my hand on the knob.

“I’m fine. My boobs are just really sore. And my nipples are, like, these spirals of icy death when I get cold.”

“Oh. Wow. That sounds…intense.” It hits me that I haven’t asked how she’s feeling. Fuck me, I’m a douchecanoe. “How are you feeling? Aside from the White Walker nipples.”

Julia’s grin is back, and it is doing things to me.

“You watch Game of Thrones?”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

She lifts a shoulder. “All right. Just this low-grade garbage-y feeling that is a not-so-nice reminder that something is off. No real nausea, although that isn’t supposed to peak until week eight or nine. We think I’m only six weeks along, so we’ll see. Otherwise, I feel a little bloated. And tired. Really, really tired.”

“Anything I can do? Anything you need?”

Another tight smile. “At this point, I think it’s just about muscling through.”