“Baptist.” I sit in the chair next to him and order a club soda with lime.
“Not drinking tonight?”
“Keeping my wits about me.”But mostly I can’t because I’m pregnant with your baby.“Something in the way you’re looking at me suggests I should.”
He laughs and tilts his head. “You shouldn’t tease. You know it only makes me feel as though I have license to say all the things I’ve kept bottled up.”
“Like what?”
“Jokes about your lips, mainly.”
“My lips?”
“Mouth, tongue, teeth. That region.”
“Sounds awful. I’m glad you’ve kept it to yourself.”
He takes a sip and shakes his head. “No, Webb. It’s not awful at all.”
I shiver as my drink arrives and take a sip. Baptist is studying me closely and I know what he’s thinking. I’m dressed up and looking better than I’ve looked since the wedding, and he knows damn well why. I’ve kept to ponytails, messy buns, sweats, and sneakers, mostly because I can’t stand the way he looks at me and I don’t want to make it worse.
Like it is right now.
I should’ve come here wearing that nightgown Cowan’s aunt had on.
“All right, Webb. You tell me how things went with Cowan, and I’ll sit here and enjoy looking at you in that dress.”
“Prick.” I close my eyes, sigh, and give him the rundown. He listens intently and only glances down at my body a few times, which is better than I expected. When I finish, he seems angry all over again.
“We have to stop this. He knew that unstable old bat was in that house.”
“We could’ve knocked, you know.”
“Webb, don’t defend him. He fucking knew.”
“You really think he’s that much of a mastermind?”
He shakes his head and takes a long sip. “I think he’s that much of a gambler. With his own life and the lives of those around him.”
“We’re fine though.”
“Barely. I told you I wouldn’t put you in danger, and I meant it.”
“We’re not walking away.” I stare at my drink, working on the courage I need to broach the subject. I want to do it—I reallywantto do it. Not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I believe it’s the right thing. Even still, the idea of saying the words out loud, of telling Baptist that I’m pregnant with his baby, feels like the most terrifying thing I could do.
“No, we’re not.”
That surprises me. I expected him to argue with me again, but he’s staring intently in my eyes with a look I don’t quite recognize. It’s intense, like he’s working through something internally, and he holds my gaze for another moment before turning away and taking another long sip.
“What changed?”
“I thought about what you said in the car.” He hesitates, searching of the words. “About wanting something.”
I didn’t expect this at all. I lean closer to hear him over the sound of other people talking. “What do you want, Baptist?”
“You know my background. My father owned the Keswick Theater for years until he sold it to the Crawford family. All those years, I stood backstage with my old man and watched the acts, from the singers to the comedians to the rock bands, and I decided I wanted to do that one day. I wanted to get up there and entertain. I wanted to be so talented I could fill a theater with people and keep them engrossed in me for hours. I was desperate for it back then, but as I got older, I realized I don’t have the talent.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s not all that uncommon—a lot of people in our business started out wanting to be on the artist side of things—but I had no clue Baptist felt that way.