In The Clear | ✓

16 | thirty-eight candles

Weeks passed and press dragged on. To Jensen's unparalleled delight, there were less bad reporters than good ones. Apparently they'd been frontloaded. Their last night of press landed on Jensen's birthday, one night left in London until they left for Los Angeles the next day. Jensen wasn't in the mood for a plane, she wasn't in the mood to be thirty-five weeks, and she wasn't in the mood for Hollywood press. She wanted to be home. In her own bed. Sure, she'd be preparing for their baby, but at least she'd be back in Vancouver. The charm of London had worn off on her when she realized the smell outside was triggering something that she did not enjoy this late in her pregnancy.

            Needless to say, leaving London the next day wasn't anything Jensen was complaining about.

            Miles had decided that, although she dreaded going outside, that her last night in London was going to be the best thing he could make it. Tina had already insisted that Miles go with Jensen to see Six instead of her. ("I'm a fan of drama, kid," Tina had said, "but not fake drama.") (Jensen had the feeling telling her it was real history wasn't going to change her mind.)

            "Miles," Jensen had said while they were packing Rocky's suitcase together a couple nights previous, "I really don't care."

            Miles had pouted. Maybe Jensen could blame Rocky's pouting on him instead of herself. "But it's your birthday."

            "And I'll be one year older," Jensen had said, "and we'll go see the show. Which is all I need."

            "Can we at least do dinner?"

            Jensen had paused folding a pair of Rocky's pants. "Does it mean that much to you?"

            "This trip has been rough," Miles had said, "I'd be begging even if it wasn't your birthday."

            Jensen had caved. She couldn't resist those ocean eyes. Not any day of the week.

            So, there they were. Jensen having too much attention on her when she felt too old, too tired, and too bloated to do anything other than yearn for her bed at home. She didn't mean to be so pessimistic—well, more than usual. She was simply... done. She wanted their baby out of her and she wanted the bruised ribs to stop and she wanted to get to the other pains of being a mother like sore breasts and midnight crying and vomit-stained t-shirts.

            "Babe, is this okay?" Miles stepped into their room. Having already panicked about the fact that he hadn't packed anything remotely nice to wear, Miles had left the room to stress search Maddox's suitcase and see if he had packed anything passable. (His next step was calling Scott before he arrived to help Maddox babysit Rocky for the night.) (The next next step was running outside and hoping a clothing store was open.)

            "I already said you don't have to look—" Jensen turned and caught herself, eyeing Miles up and down. And up and down once more. Because she could.

            It was simple, really. What Miles was wearing. Black shirt, navy suit. The pants were a little loose, the shirt a little snug. At some point, he'd changed the stud in his earring to a small hoop which Jensen thought might have been too soon, but she liked the way it looked. He hadn't put any shoes on to run to Maddox's room, so the socks with electric green dinosaurs printed across them were a bonus. And he looked wonderful.

            "Is you staring a good or a bad sign?" A smile tugged at the corner of Miles' lips.

            Jensen regained her composure. "You look handsome."