I was starting to think my husband had a secret desire to drive me insane.
Every morning began with the same argument or rather, the same overly sweet interrogation disguised as concern. It was a great way to rile me up.
"Did you eat well last night?"
"Did you drink enough water?"
"Are you sure that chair's comfortable?"
And the one that made me want to scream, "Should you really be walking that much, baby?"
I huffed and puffed in between answers but he never seemed to get the message. I was six months pregnant, not made of glass for goodness sake! But Jace Romano had apparently decided that my pregnancy was a high-risk international mission requiring twenty-four-hour surveillance. I was sick of it.
