Esme
Derek and the girls stand on the other side of my front door, all smiling at me eagerly.
“Come on in, girls,” I instruct, waving them in. “Sammy’s over by the couch.”
Bea and Tris run in, cooing at Sammy as Derek walks past, allowing me to shut the door.
I get a whiff of what might be cologne or his body wash. Suddenly, the rush of sickness hits me like a train.
“Be right back.” I manage to tell him, running into the bathroom for another round of morning sickness.
I’m getting absolutely sick of having this be a daily occurrence. Not only is it disgusting to lose my breakfast every day, but Derek might realize at any moment what I’m hiding from him.
I give myself a few extra minutes before I leave the room, washing my hands
