Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I’d barely been in the office between Pilates and lunch with Preacher. But it didn’t matter. I had taken the rest of the day off. I had work to do, and I couldn’t focus with him around.
Ugh! The smug look on his face when he said he wanted to put a baby in me! Ugh!!!
Hopefully, my neighbor’s Wi-Fi would hold up long enough for me to actually get work done. I felt a sudden urgency to finish up my degree. Add classes. Because pretty soon, I had a feeling I would be too busy.
I knew it. I knew it in my bones that I was pregnant.
Don’t think about that, Cynth. Think about work. That’s the only thing you can change right now. Focus on what you can control.
“Other than not being a dumbass for one minute longer.”
My phone buzzed and I glared at it. Preacher was texting again. That was after he’d trailed me home and stood outside, staring at my window for forty-five minutes.
He was apologizing, but not for saying he was glad I might be pregnant. He actually seemed to want to have a baby with me.
Maybe you are both dumbasses, my mother’s voice chortled in my head.
Preacher had told me he loved me. But had he said anything about marriage? No. And if I were pregnant, then how would I know he really meant it if he did ask? It was all happening so fast. I didn’t know what was real anymore.
Other than the explosive feelings between us, good and bad. There were no half-measures when it came to us. But was that a good thing? I wasn’t sure.
Being Preacher’s wife . . . that was something I’d ever even thought about.
Not just any preacher, either. A disreputable, dirty, foul-mouthed, kind, caring, generous, surprisingly educated and intelligent, sexy as all get-out, loyal, and trustworthy preacher.
My Preacher.
And he was mine.
Even though right now, I sort of wanted to kick him in the shins.
“Focus, Cynthia,” I muttered, firing up the ancient laptop I’d had since high school. It was secondhand back then, making it at least a decade old by now. It barely worked, but I’d learned how to nurture it like a baby.
A baby . . .
I got a little misty eyed and caught myself staring out the window again.
I shook my head, staring at my rickety old laptop again. It barely had any memory, and I lived in constant dread of it giving up the ghost. So I stored all of my files on a series of thumb drives I’d gotten as free gifts at promotional events to be safe.
Nobody loved free stuff as much as I did. And I’d gotten very good at ferreting out the stuff I might actually use.
Basically, if I thought they were giving out thumb drives and coffee mugs, I was there. I’d scored beach towels and blankets and slept in free T-shirts every night. Clarice and I had kind of made a sport of it, keeping score of who could get the most ‘free shit’, as she called it.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
I needed to talk to her, I decided. I texted her and forced myself to follow up with all the vendors for next week’s street fair without glancing at my phone. The garden was looking better every day and would be the centerpiece of the event with a stage beside it set up for musical acts and my dance crew.
We were raising money for Preacher’s neighborhood restoration plan. And that included kids’ classes in a variety of subjects, which I appreciated.
My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it, unable to ignore it despite my best efforts. Preacher and Clarice had both texted, him telling me he ‘fucking loved me, dammit’ and protesting that it wasn’t just some ‘macho bullshit’, and Clarice saying she’d be right over.
I was able to concentrate for the time it took her to walk over from the church and ring my doorbell.
“Are you telling me that you, a mere child, might actually be with child? Ooh, girl,” Clarice said, fanning her face. But she was smiling. “That is a fly in the ointment!”
I nodded, feeling a weird mix of emotions. I was angry at Preacher—and myself, of course. It was my body and my responsibility. But a secret part of me was kind of . . . hopeful. Hopeful and somehow satisfied. Like my body wanted this, even if it was something I hadn’t even thought about happening anytime soon. I hadn’t even dreamed about having a boyfriend in years, let alone getting impregnated by a biker almost thirty years older than me.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure exactly how old Preacher was, anyway. Was his sperm okay? What if something went wrong? What if he ditched us like so many guys did around here?