Pride And Pregnancy. Sarah M. Anderson

grid in the middle of nowhere.”

      That got her attention. “I thought you said you had a home?” She looked around, feeling the weight of the phrase wide-open spaces for the first time. There was nothing around here except the highly mobile fake shrubbery. “I don’t see...”

      Then she saw it—in the direction where the ruts disappeared down the drive, there were trees off in the distance. “This is a real house, right? If you live in a van down by the river, I’m going to be pissed. A real house with pizza,” she added. “And a real bed. I will walk back to Pierre before I crash in a sleeping bag.”

      It wasn’t fair, that grin. His muscles weren’t fair, his jaw wasn’t fair and the way he had of looking at her—that, most of all, wasn’t fair. Especially right now, when it was pretty obvious to everyone—all two of them—that her filters were failing her.