A heavy weight presses against my back and I wake up, hot and hungry. Prescott snores in my ear, louder than normal and it comes back to me, in a rush, that he came home drunk as shit last night—completely tanked.

Then everything else from yesterday afternoon comes back too, including that fucking envelope and its contents. I hate it. My stomach rolls at the thought. I sit up in bed, quickly running to the bathroom to empty my stomach.

I shouldn’t be feeling sick, my morning sickness has been gone for weeks now, but I know that this is nothing but stress.

Quietly, I leave Prescott alone and asleep in bed, deciding to make some breakfast. Once I’m downstairs, I look around, frightened that someone will be waiting for me, even though I’m sure they won’t.

This feeling that I have, this fear, it means that whoever this person is, they’re winning. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. I will not let them win. I refuse.

I click on the television, searching for something that will fill the room with noise while I make some breakfast. Rebel Without A Cause is on and I turn up the volume. Deciding to make a hangover breakfast for Prescott. I pull out the pancake mix, eggs, and bacon. Then I start cooking.

I’m lost inside of my own head, trying, and failing, not to think about the dreaded envelope. I should be thinking of happy things, like baby names and nursery decorations but I can’t. The experience is completely dulled by the fear and panic that is surging throughout my entire body.

A noise from behind me causes me to jump with a small scream. Slowly, I turn around and see Prescott sitting at the bar, his head in his hand. I attempt to act unaffected and go back to the pancakes that now need to be flipped.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

He grunts before he lets out a moan. “Like a fucking asshole,” he surprisingly admits.

I plate the finished pancakes, throw some crisp bacon and eggs on the plate and walk it over to him. Then I turn to the refrigerator and grab butter and syrup before I reach into the drawer and get silverware.

“Looks good, peaches,” he murmurs as he just stares at the plate of food.

I watch him for just a moment before I speak. “Are you going to eat it?” I ask.

His green eyes look up at me and damn, he looks pale and sick. “I gotta sneak up on it. I drank way too much last night,” he admits.

With a nod, I turn back to the food and prepare my own plate. My stomach is seriously demanding food right now.

Prescott reaches across the bar and takes my plate from me, setting it down next to him on the counter. I hurry to his side and sit down, immediately beginning to fix my pancakes, no butter but tons of syrup.

“You pissed about yesterday?” he asks in almost a whisper.

I think about his question, and last night I probably would have answered yes, but not because I was mad, because I was scared.

If I had told him about the letter and photos, he would have dropped everything to be here, though. The fact is, I didn’t tell him, and I don’t plan to either. So, I can’t really get mad at him. Not when he hasn’t done anything but celebrate the fact that he’s excited to be a father.

I shake my head, lifting my face to give him a smile. “I’m not mad. I wish you would have called me though, can you do that next time?”

He smirks, wrapping his hand around my thigh and giving me a squeeze. “You worried about your Old Man?” he asks.

He sounds so cocky, and I let out a laugh. “Yeah, I was a little worried,” I admit.

Prescott leans forward, pressing his lips to the underside of my jaw then slowly drags them over to my ear before he whispers, “I’ll try not to worry you again, peaches.” I shiver as his breath washes over me, my stomach fluttering and my pussy clenching with desire.

He pulls away and returns back to his plate, slowly eating the food in front of him, while I devour my own at twice his pace.

“I’m not going into the clubhouse today, what do you want to do?” he asks, leaning back in his chair once he’s finished his food.

Turning to him, my eyes widen in surprise. Prescott goes to the clubhouse, every day, at least once. I’ve never known him to not at least stop by, not unless he was out of town. “I don’t know,” I admit.

“How about we get some baby shit?” he asks, arching a brow.

I press my lips together and try not to cry, because even though he’s called it baby shit, it’s so freaking sweet. I could use some time away from this house, and away from my panty drawer which is like a big beacon of doom.

“Let’s do it,” I nod.

Prescott reaches to grab hold of the back of my neck, tugging me closer to him and presses his lips against mine. “Go get dressed, I’ll clean up,” he whispers against my mouth.

He gives me a quick, hard kiss. He releases me and stands, walking into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I shake my head, unbelieving that he ate breakfast in his underwear, but as hungover as he was, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me.

Turning away from him, I walk upstairs to get dressed. I take a quick shower, shaving my legs even though it isn’t the easiest task on the planet with my growing belly. Then I hurry to my panty drawer and take a pair out as quickly as I can, slamming the drawer closed.

Once I’m in my bra and underwear, I stand at my open closet and look around. I’ve worn all of my leggings, and I can’t button any of my jeans.

I have absolutely nothing to wear. I reach for a long sweater dress and slip it on, but it looks more like a really short tunic now, rather than a dress, my ass pretty much hangs out of the bottom. I need to go shopping, it’s not a want anymore, it’s a need at this point.

“You gonna let that ass hang out all day?” Prescott asks from behind me.

I turn around, my hand on my hip and my eyes narrowed at him. He’s got a smirk on his face, but he still looks a little pale. His head is probably still throbbing, and if I yelled at him, he’d certainly cry. “Nothing fits,” I grumble.

“Then we’ll get you some clothes today too, do you need a pair of my sweatpants until then?” he asks with a grin.

I flip him off and start to rummage through my things. I’ve got to have another pair of leggings somewhere. I feel like I’ve discovered the holy grail when I pull out a pair from the bottom.

The size says small, but hopefully the top I have will cover enough of my ass that you can’t tell they’re screaming tight, which I’m positive they will be.

Ignoring Prescott, I pull my feet through my leggings, bending my legs, twisting, and turning to get them all the way on. Thank Jesus for Lycra, that’s all I can think as I finish pulling them up.

I walk over to the full-length mirror and cringe. Everything I have on is so tight, I look terrible. “Can we go to the clothing store first?” I ask.

Prescott’s eyes scan my body and he grunts. “Yeah, but not because you look bad, but because I don’t want every guy on earth staring at your tits and ass.”

“What?” I laugh.

He shakes his head once. “Pregnant or not, you look sexy as fuck, peaches. You’re also not anybody else’s to look at. So, yeah, we can go clothes shopping first.”

I smile at my Old Man. His little chauvinistic comment would have pissed me off a year ago. However, now, I get it. He’s not trying to control me and hold me down, he just doesn’t want the world looking at me as if I’m available.

I know that if I pushed the issue, he wouldn’t force me to dress any certain way, but his request isn’t outlandish. I personally don’t feel comfortable in the skintight clothing I’m wearing right now, so it’s not a hardship to get some more comfortable clothes.

While I finish getting ready, Prescott takes a shower and dresses for the day as well. He looks sexy as shit, his damp hair slicked back and his green eyes on mine. “Think I’m going to cut my hair and shave some of this beard off,” he mentions as he grabs hold of the bottom of his beard.

Tipping my head to the side, I ask him why.

“Just thinking about the baby coming. She won’t be able to really see my face,” he mentions.

I bite the corner of my lip and try to keep from smiling, but I fail. My smile breaks out at the thought of him, shaving for his baby. “I think that would be good, especially since she’ll probably just grab at it and pull,” I grin.

We don’t say anything else, Prescott reaches for my hand, wrapping it in his and together we walk downstairs. I’m surprised to see that the kitchen is spotless.

Usually, when Prescott cleans, he just kind of piles everything into the sink. This time, he actually put everything away, and I’m pleasantly surprised, and seriously impressed.

He helps me into his pickup and I look around for his motorcycle. “Didn’t drive home trashed, peaches. It’s at the clubhouse, we’ll pick it up later or tomorrow,” he shrugs as he starts the engine.

I glance around, looking for signs of another yellow envelope as he backs out of the driveway and I’m glad when I don’t see anything. Reaching for the radio, I try to distract myself with music, or at least flipping through the stations.

Ginger seems nervous and has since I woke up this morning. I don’t know what’s bothering her, but I don’t ask—she’ll tell me when she’s ready. Driving toward town, I think about our baby, our girl. I haven’t really thought of names, and I guess I should. Reaching for the radio, I turn it down.

“Have you thought of names?” I ask, staring straight forward through the windshield.

Ginger hums and I imagine she’s got that cute little crease in the middle of her forehead that only appears when she’s thinking. “Something classic and pretty,” she offers. That means jackshit to me. So, I wait, sure that she’ll continue. “I was thinking about it yesterday, something like Clementine,” she offers.

I cough. “Peaches, not only no, but fuck no. You are not naming my baby fucking Clementine,” I announce.

She laughs, and I’m glad I didn’t piss her off, but fuck that shit. “I just mean something old like that, not actually Clementine.”

“Thank fuck,” I sigh.

I glance over at her, as I continue down the road. I watch as she takes her phone out. “I’m going to Google baby names. Let’s see if we can get an idea of some names we both don’t completely hate,” she offers.

That’s how the rest of our drive goes. Ginger reads off names from lists and either one, or both of us, veto them. By the time the mall comes into view, we’re no closer to a baby name than we were before we started.

I park the pickup and turn the ignition off. Just sitting in the parking lot of a mall makes my skin crawl, but Ginger needs clothes, and my girl needs—everything.

Jumping out of the front seat, I jog around to her side and help her out of the passenger seat. Slipping my arm around her neck, I tug her against my side as we walk toward the entrance. “Thank you for coming with me, you know you don’t have to do this. I could have waited until my mom came,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “With your three maternity shirts and your three pairs of leggings. Peaches, you need clothes. Your mom can help with all the shit a baby needs, but let your man help with what he can, yeah?”

“Okay,” she breathes before she rests her head against my chest.

Walking into the mall, I ignore the looks of the moms with strollers and screaming kids. They’re all huddled around the germ-infested play area. Ginger doesn’t ignore them though, I glance over at her and she’s glaring daggers at them. I chuckle, my feisty little Georgia peach.

“You know those bitches are just jealous. I’m about two seconds from clawing their gawking eyes out,” she announces.

I bark out a laugh at her words. Leaning over, I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling her scent. “Seems like I’m not the only one who doesn’t want people staring,” I mutter against the top of her hair.

“Fuck no you’re not,” she states.

We walk around the mall, neither of us in a hurry as we try to find the maternity store. I don’t bother looking at the directory, content to just mosey along with my woman.

Today is about us, about me providing some things that she obviously needs, and about our new baby girl. Hopefully we can get some of the big things she needs, like a crib and shit.

Once we find the maternity store, we walk inside, and I feel a slight bit of panic rush through me. The mannequins are all rounded and pregnant looking, really pregnant looking.

I glance from one pregnant torso and then down to Ginger. She’s obviously pregnant but not heavily, yet. She will be though, right before my eyes and before I realize it.

Holy shit.

“Are you freaking out?” she asks on a whisper.

My eyes drag up to her brown ones and I take a calming breath. “I’m trying not to, but you’re going to be that big soon. It just means that the baby will be here before I even realize it, and I haven’t planned a fucking thing,” I stress.

“We have three months, give or take. We got this, Pres,” she smiles, cupping my jaw with her hand.

I look into her eyes, warm and brown and mine. She’s calm and just her being that way levels me out, too. I’m unable to drag my eyes from hers, content to stand in the middle of this store and just allow her to calm my ass down. I fucking love her, she’s mine, and we got this shit—just like she said.