Free Eleven Weeks by Lauren K. McKellar Page A

chest.
    Swallow.
    That is infinitely worse.
    “Michael …” I blink. This time there is no don’t look at his eyes or please don’t look at his lips . I can’t stop myself gravitating toward him. My eyes flick down, looking at his pink lips, imagining how soft they’d feel, how much I want to taste him, and—
    “She’s gone.” Michael steps back.
    I turn to face the street and see Kate as she disappears around the corner, heading safely into our hotel.
    I want to die. What the hell is going on? Does he like me or not?
    And why am I hitting on a guy in a sell-out concert support band if I’m pregnant?
    Once again, my stupid reality smacks me in the face. “All right. Well, looks like I’ll head back.” I put on a cheery face. Yep. Cheery. That’s how fake it is.
    “I’ll walk you back.” Michael takes a few steps in the hotel’s direction.
    “Why?” I narrow my eyes.
    “Stace.” He runs his hands through his hair again, staring up at the sky. “It’s no secret I like you, yeah? And I don’t want you to get murdered. Or raped. Or—hell, I don’t even want you to get cold.”
    I give a wry smile. It’s a warm summer night, and I can feel the damp sheen of perspiration on my forehead. At night .
    Still, that isn’t what I smile about. He likes me. He really thinks he likes me. Me!
    On the way back to the hotel, my head keeps swirling with thoughts. I have to deal with this. What the hell am I going to do? Michael. He likes me, but he’s leaving. The baby. Hell, my career. I haven’t applied for any university courses. I’m not stupid enough to fight my fate. I’m destined to work at the supermarket and marry some guy and sprout out his kids. I’ve most likely failed three of my subjects, and I doubt you can get a scholarship based on good at cheerleading and bossing around your peers. I’ve always known that.
    When you’re the only blonde in a family of brunettes, and grew up with lines like “By the time Mum and Dad got around to creating you, all the intelligence genes had been dished out,” it’s hard to think you can be more. What’s the point in trying when you know you’re going to fail? Sometimes, it’s easier to admit defeat. To admit that just as everyone predicted, I’ve failed.
    What if this baby is the one thing I could be good at?
    When we get to the lobby, Michael helps me over to the elevator.
    “Well, I guess I’ll be go—”
    “Stay.” The word is out of my mouth before I have time to process it. I want, no, I need him to stay, so badly.
    “I don’t mean to sound like a dick … but why?” Michael withdraws his arm and the cool air-conditioned air caresses my back.
    “I don’t know,” I whisper. My bottom lip trembles. “I just … I don’t know.” Tears well in my eyes and in a heartbeat, Michael’s arms wrap around me and I’ve never felt safer or more secure while feeling such loss and emptiness inside.
    What is right? What is the right thing in this situation?
    The elevator dings open and Michael and I step inside. I click the button for our floor and watched the numbers flick up, the elevator sending a familiar lurch through my stomach as we pick up speed.
    “You okay?” Michael cups my chin, and I give a weak nod. He must think I am a psychopath.
    We walk to our door and I usher Michael in, pointing him toward my room.
    “Nice place,” Michael whispers, taking in the large, white bed and the view that stretches out over Surfers Paradise below. Lights twinkle from the clubs and pubs on the strip, all the way to the freight ships out at sea in the distance. The city has turned it on tonight.
    “Thanks.”
    Michael sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his shoes.
    “Shall we … talk?” Michael asks.
    I shrug. For once, I am all out of words.
    “How are things with your family?”
    The words are so soft, I’m almost not sure I hear them. “What—what do you mean?”
    “You know.” Michael shrugs and presses his body farther up the