She lifts her glass, her eyes wide, her lush lips parted as I hold my glass out toward hers. She taps her glass to mine, the light tinging sound it makes at first contact making me smile. “To us,” she murmurs before she takes the tiniest sip.
Hmmm.
Winston didn’t lie—the food is delicious. We’re first served a chilled soup, followed by a truffle salad with a lemony vinaigrette. The next course is caviar on thin squares of toast, which Charlotte doesn’t want to eat.
“The smell makes me want to gag,” she murmurs, pushing her plate toward mine, which I gladly take.
Hmmm again.
The entrées start next. Yellowfin tuna with avocado and ginger dressing. Norwegian king crab and rice. A steamed black sea bass, which Charlotte seems to like the best so far. By the time the beef tenderloin course arrives, she’s leaning back in her chair, shaking her head. “I’m stuffed.”
I take a bite, the beef melting in my mouth. Damn, that’s good. “There’s still dessert,” I remind her after I swallow.
Charlotte shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can manage it.”
“Oh come on. You’ve done pretty well so far.”
She smiles, resting her hand over her flat belly and all the air sticks in my throat, thinking this is it. The moment where she tells me she’s going to have a baby. My gaze flits to her wineglass, which is still mostly full and has sat untouched the entirety of the meal. I’ve only had one glass myself, sticking mostly to water thanks to me driving, meaning that very expensive bottle of wine I bought has mostly gone to waste.
Worth it to watch Charlotte eat and smile though.
“We keep eating like this, I’ll gain weight,” she says.
“You could stand to gain a few pounds,” I say, hating how her smile fades. “You haven’t been eating much lately.”
And she’s lost weight. It’s obvious. Not that I care what she weighs because the woman is sexy as fuck, but to see her go through this the last few weeks has been…
Concerning.
“I know.” Her tone is solemn. “I haven’t been feeling that well.”
That’s it. That’s all she says. Nothing else about impending babies or pregnancy or morning sickness or whatever else is associated with being pregnant. I’m dying for some confirmation here, but I’m also starting to wonder if she’s not aware of the fact that she could be pregnant.
“You seem to be feeling better tonight,” I tell her, my voice low, my gaze sweeping over her. “That dress…”
“I bought it after we got engaged and never had a chance to wear it,” she admits.
“I like it.” My gaze lingers on her chest, wondering what she’s got on under there. A lacy bra? Something sheer? Maybe nothing at all? Her tits aren’t that big, though they’re a perfect handful. “A lot.”
Her cheeks turn the faintest pink. “Sometimes I wonder if I showed up wearing a plastic bag if you’d still compliment me.”
“I would,” I say without hesitation. “Wearing a bag, a box, a dress, sweats, nothing at all. You’re gorgeous, wife.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, husband.” Her smile is faint and she reaches for her wineglass, bringing it to her mouth and taking a normal sip.
Or maybe it wasn’t so normal. Maybe it was small…
Huh. That wasn’t much confirmation. I don’t think she believes she’s pregnant. Or she doesn’t know. Or she flat out isn’t.
The disappointment that hits me is almost laughable. I should be relieved. Am I ready for a kid with a woman I just married? Hell no. We’re young. As Charlotte just so thankfully reminded me, she’s not even old enough to drink legally yet.
We’re not ready for babies. Fuck that.
“I have a question,” I say after our server leaves with some of our discarded plates, promising dessert is coming next.
“What is it?” Charlotte asks.
“I’ve been wondering all night…” My voice drifts and she tilts her head, frowning.