That Baby: A Small Town, Friends-to-Lovers Romance (That Boy Series Book 3)

I’m exhausted and headed home from work on Friday afternoon.

It’s been a long week.

We’ve moved all the office furniture into the new building and added all the decorative touches.

No one has let me do much because I’m pregnant, but I’ve been on my feet the whole time, overseeing the process. The company grand-opening party is next Thursday, and I want everything to look perfect.

I’m so incredibly proud of how it has come together, but right now, all I want to do is go home and soak in a warm bath.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to do that.

Danny begged me to try to get my friendship with Lori back on track.

I told him she needed to apologize first.

But then he told me that he decided to stop talking to Jennifer. When I asked him why, he said it was because he really liked her, and if he kept talking to her, it would eventually destroy his family.

As I ring their doorbell, I feel torn about his decision. On one hand, I’m proud of him for being responsible, for not giving up on his marriage, and for making his baby a priority. On the other hand, my heart aches because I want him to be crazy happy in love.

Lori answers the door, and upon seeing me, she says, “Wow, you’ve gotten huge!”

I rub my growing belly. “I know,” I say sweetly, trying to kill her bitchiness with kindness. “Isn’t it exciting? I only have three and a half weeks left.”

“You know, just because you’ve had an easy pregnancy doesn’t mean you’ll have an easy birth.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve skated through your pregnancy. That means, you’ll have a rough delivery. It’s just how it works.”

My blood starts to boil. “It almost sounds like you’re hoping my delivery won’t be easy. Like it’s some kind of sick payback for yours being crappy. And, personally, I think that’s a pretty shitty thing to say to a friend. Although I don’t know why I’m surprised. You haven’t been my friend lately. The only reason I even stopped by is because Danny, who I love, begged me to. And, since you aren’t on medication anymore, Lori, what is your excuse for being such a bitch?”

She starts to speak, but I hold up my hand. “Don’t bother replying. I already know the answer. You don’t have one. And I’m sick of it. Sick of the way you treat me. Sick of the way you treat Danny. He might be stuck with you, but I’m not! Have a great life, Lori.”

I’m pissed off when I march into my house.

I’m barely through the front door when Phillip’s mom grabs me. “I have a surprise to show you!”

She leads me toward the nursery.

Oh. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Please, God. Please tell me she didn’t do anything to the nursery.

But she has.

Phillip’s old crib is shoved into the corner where the rocker is supposed to go, and there are ugly cartoon animals stuck to the beautiful paint I spent weeks agonizing over.

And that’s when I lose it.

Tears stream down my face as I storm out of the nursery, grab my suitcase out of the hall closet, take it down to my room, and start throwing stuff in it.

“What are you doing?” she asks, following me.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving my dream house. Because it doesn’t even feel like my home any more.”

“What do you mean?” she asks as I slam the suitcase shut and wheel it down the hall.

“I didn’t have a picture on the dining room wall because Phillip and I were waiting for the Plaza Art Fair where we were going to find the perfect piece of art. Something that would always remind us of the place we went every year as kids and where we got married. Instead, there’s some horrible picture of a place in Paris that we’ve never been to and was”—I can barely get out the words—“mass-produced. And we didn’t have a kitchen table because we found a beautiful custom table that our kids and friends would carve their names in. But, because the artist only makes one at a time, we have to wait another month before it will be done. And, in the meantime, I have a table that doesn’t match the style of my kitchen at all, and not only that, it’s made of”—I start crying harder—“pressed wood!”

I storm by the kitchen.

“And I freaking hate chickens. No one under fifty has chickens in their kitchen. No one! So, you and Phillip can live here because it’s not even my house anymore.” I grab my portfolio, take out my dream-house sketchbook, and throw it on the counter. “I guess I won’t be needing this anymore. And, just for the record, no one knocks on our front door at night. We were having sex because that’s what newlyweds are supposed to do!”

I waddle out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

I throw my suitcase in the car and pull out of my driveway.

I have no idea where I’m going.

Once I get a few blocks from my house, I pull over.

I can barely see the road through my tears.

I don’t even know where to go.

I pat the top of my belly as the baby gives me a swift kick in the ribs, and I intuitively know that I need to calm myself down.