Page 63 of A Really Bad Idea

“We’re not settling down.”

“I want Christian to experience fatherhood, and I want to be a grandpa in the worst way.”

Wow. This is optimistic. Far easier than I thought it would be.

No wonder Christian has such a carefree attitude about us having a baby together. His dad is incredibly supportive.

The elated look on his face morphs into sadness. I know there’s a heavier thought on his mind, something he wants to say yet knows it could be devastating.

“You have concerns,” I state.

He folds his arms and looks down for a moment. It’s the same look he has when he’s letting our patients know the risks before surgery. “Two friends having a baby is unconventional. Even the strongest couples who are in love fall apart when it comes to the pressures of raising a child.”

“We could fall apart,” I sigh.

He places his hands on my shoulders. I look up into his wisdom-filled gaze. “No matter what happens between the two of you, I can guarantee you this. You’ll never regret it. One look at that child, and you’ll be so in love, so fulfilled, that you’ll know it was the right thing to do.”

A cry-like breath escapes my lips. That is a scary and beautiful thing to hear.

“Thank you.”

“For everyone’s sake, I’m going to go on as if I know nothing about this. If Lucille finds out I knew and didn’t tell her, I’ll be sleeping on the couch for a year.”

He walks out of the break room, leaving me alone. It’s not even noon, and I’ve already had the craziest day. I look down at the packets in my hand and find myself overwhelmed with another sensation.

Expectation.

We won’t need these at all.

“The silver peep-toe or gold strapless?” I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, holding up the bottom of my sapphire dress as I show my shoe options to Beth over FaceTime.

“Gold,” she says. She’s sitting at her kitchen island, sipping a cup of tea. “And what about a clutch? What are you using?”

I walk over to my dresser and hold up the three evening bags I own.

She leans back with her mouth twisted. “That’s all you have?” I lower my shoulders and make a face. “The one with the snap on top will do, which means you have to wear the silver shoes.”

“The gown is so long. No one will notice if my shoes don’t match my clutch.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Fine.” I toss the bags back on my dresser and sit on the bed to slide the silver shoes on my feet. When I rise, I straighten my dress, adjust my cleavage, and pose for her. “Silver shoes. Snappy clutch. How’s the hair?”

“Killer. I like the old Hollywood thing you have going on. The tumbling waves make your hair extra golden and shiny.”

“Thanks.” I glance in the mirror and push on the comb that is holding the hair back on one side of my head, making sure it’s as tight as can be. My lashes are long, and I gloss my lips. I appear posh, poised, and put together. Appear being the operative word because, inside, I’m a pile of mush.

“Final verdict?”

“Gorgeous. Let me see the back,” she says, and I do a turn, listening as Beth whistles in approval. “Damn. Your waist looks extra tiny, and your ass is like Jessica Rabbit in that thing. He really picked it out on his own?”

“I assumed you had a hand in it.”

“Me? No. I would have put you in red and maybe a drop waist, but that dress fits you like a glove, and the color is vibrant. He chose well.”

I run a hand over the silky material of the dress and clutch my belly. “I’m nervous.”

“You should be.”