Slept with one Twin...and Fell for the Other

Chapter 13

Bellamy POV

“You’re pregnant?” Tristan shouted, holding the test in his hand like it had personally insulted him.

I stared at him, lips dry, hands clenched at my sides. “Yes,” I whispered. “I am.”

His voice rose again, half-shocked, half-panicked. “When did you find out?”

“Yesterday,” I said. “Right after I… well, after I threw up on you.”

He blinked. “Wait. That’s when you found out?”

“Yes.”

“So when you vomited on me—you already knew?!”

I quickly shook my head. “No! I didn’t know! That’s why I took the test. I thought I was just seasick. Or stressed. Not… this.”

Tristan stared at me like I’d grown a third head. “Oh my God, Bellamy. You make me feel like a jerk.”

I narrowed my eyes, folding my arms. “You aren’t? By default?”

He rolled his eyes and muttered something I couldn’t quite catch. “I’ll get you your food,” he said, turning around. “Then you can tell me how this happened. Because I’m pretty sure you weren’t pregnant when we interviewed you. Or was that why you were looking for a job? You’re pregnant and needed a paycheck?”

My jaw dropped slightly. “No. I was not planning on getting pregnant, Tristan. This wasn’t some plan. It’s a surprise—to me, more than anyone.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just moved around the kitchen, finishing up the pork dish he’d been making before the pregnancy test surprise exploded the room. He plated the food, added some rice from the small propane burner they’d set up when the power went out, and slid a plate in front of me. Then he took another one and disappeared out the back, probably to feed the boatman who was still doing damage control at the wrecked boathouse.

When he came back, he dropped into the chair across from me. The tension between us was thick enough to cut with a fork.

“So,” he said, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Are you going to tell the dad?”

I picked at the pork with my fork. “Yes. When I get back.”

“That’s why you’re freaking out about being stranded here, huh?”

“Obviously,” I said flatly. “You think I want to give birth on a beach?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Fair.”

Then he looked at me, more serious now. “Do you know who the father is?”

I raised my eyebrows and looked up slowly. “Of course I do. What do you think I am?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just asking.”

I didn’t say anything else. I just kept eating. The pork was actually really good—lightly spiced with whatever herbs he’d found, juicy, tender. But I couldn’t focus on the taste.

I didn’t want to tell him anything more. I didn’t want to look into those eyes and say, I think it’s your brother’s.

After a long silence, he pushed his plate away and stood up. “Well,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, “since there’s no power, no phone signal, and we’re kind of stuck with each other until further notice… I guess I could show you my favorite part of the resort.”

I looked up, confused. “Didn’t you already show me everything?”

He smirked. “Not everything. Come on.”

Curiosity got the better of me. I followed him through the winding halls of the main building, up a narrow staircase I hadn’t noticed before. The storm had left wet footprints on the tile, and the walls creaked with every gust of wind.

At the top of the stairs, Tristan led me to a door. It was large and heavy, made of dark wood.

“The penthouse,” he said simply.

He opened it, and I stepped inside. The room was breathtaking. Huge windows facing the ocean, a canopy bed in the corner, a grand piano covered in a dust sheet.

But then—he walked over to a bookshelf. Pulled on one of the books. And the entire shelf creaked open like a secret door in a movie.

I gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Come on,” he said, disappearing behind it.

I stepped into the hidden space—and stopped cold.

Paintings.

Everywhere.

Lined against the walls. Hanging from hooks. Stacked in corners. Oil, watercolor, charcoal. Some were of landscapes, waves crashing against rocks, others were of people—expressive eyes, sad faces, powerful stares.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “Who painted all these?”

Tristan stood in the corner, hands in his pockets. “I did.”

I whipped around to face him. “You’re a painter?”

He nodded, looking a little embarrassed. “Yeah. My mom taught me. It’s kind of… my escape.”

I walked slowly through the room, staring at every canvas. It was beautiful. Raw. Emotional. There was pain in some of the strokes, joy in others.

And then—I stopped.

A recent painting. Still slightly damp. The figure in it… was a woman. Sitting near the water. Hair loose in the wind. Her eyes cast down. But I knew that face.

It was mine.

“Tristan,” I said quietly, “who is this girl?”

He didn’t move.

“Just someone from my imagination,” he said.

Imagination? It wasn’t just imagination.

It was me.