About Time (The Avenue Book 1)

by B. Cranford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Beth Cranford

  No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design by Mila Grayson

  Copy Editing by Missy Borucki

  Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair with Fiction

  Manufactured in the United States

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by B. Cranford

  It’s all about timing . . .

  Ten years. That’s how long Ashton Andrews spent wondering if she would ever have the family she craved, with a man who was apparently not the one.

  Six weeks. Time spent patiently waiting, silently hoping and endlessly wondering if the decision she’d made to go it alone was the right one.

  Nine months. Morning sickness, cravings and that constant need to pee are what Ashton has to look forward to, knowing that numbered are her days of being just one.

  Fifteen years, eight days. An eternity ago were those unforgettable moments spent crushing on her brother’s best friend, yet her mind constantly turns to him—the one who got away.

  The one who might yet be her one.

  It’s probably about time she found out . . .

  As always, when writing this book, I *might* have taken a few liberties. Please for forgive me for that—in some cases it’s creative license. In others, however, it could just be my brain. (Can I claim baby brain when my youngest baby is four, nearly five? I’m going to. You can’t stop me.) Feel free to contact me if you have questions, suggestions, or want to yell at me—but maybe don’t expect a response if you’re yelling—via email or through my Facebook page. You can find those contact details here.

  I have been incredibly lucky to always have the love and support of my family in all things. Sadly, not everyone can say the same. I’m not going to preach to you, however, if you’d like to learn more or support the LGBTQ community, I’ve found that these are some great places to start:

  Human Rights Campaign

  American Civil Liberties Union

  GLAAD

  National LGBTQ Task Force

  For all the parents—especially my own. Because they’re hands-down the best in the world. And I know, because I’ve traveled.

  And for Linda—I couldn’t do this without you. You’re welcome for taking Charles off your hands, BTW. It really is only fair that you take my kids off mine in return . . .

  Ashton Andrews stared at the two pink lines, laid out in front of her, six times over.

  Pregnant.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, her blonde curls practically bouncing with excitement, she watched as a smile formed on her lips, stretching wider and wider until her cheeks hurt and her eyes started to water. And as the timer for test number seven went off, she knew that she would forever associate that sound with the feeling of pure happiness.

  At thirty-four—nearly thirty-five—years old, and finally free of a decade long relationship that had gone nowhere, she’d hemmed and hawed about whether trying to get pregnant was the right move. After all, in her girlish dreams of motherhood, there had always been a man by her side, supporting her, loving her, cherishing her and their child.

  And for eight short days when she was nineteen, she thought she’d found the man for the job.

  Except that relationship—such as it was—had ended, as did the next and the next and the next, until she met Nathan. And despite all of her previous relationships, he was, in fact, only the second man she had thought was the one.

  But, in the end, he’d really only been the first one to break her heart.

  Not that it mattered now—in the days and weeks after the end of her relationship with Nathan, she’d made a decision. She wanted a baby and she damn well didn’t need a man, any man, to make it happen.

  All she needed was a donor.

  And a metaphorical turkey baster.

  Oh, and to dig down deep for the final store of courage that would see her through the entire process.

  It worked. Her mind ran those two words on repeat. It worked. It worked. It worked. Again and again, she reminded herself that she’d taken the bull by the horns—not literally, of course, since she wasn’t crazy—and forged the future she wanted, for herself, and by herself.

  Now all she had to do was break the news to Aaron.

  As if he had known she was thinking about him, her phone chimed with the sound of Sam Smith lauding his own abilities at saying goodbye and alerted her to the fact that Aaron was calling. “Big brother, what’s happening?”

  “Little sister, not much.” The warmth in his tone told Ashton that Aaron, who’d been through more than his fair share of drama and angst in his thirty-six years, was relaxed and happy. “We just got home.”

  “And how was the honeymoon? Did you and Simon enjoy yourselves?” It was more of a rhetorical question than one that required a response. After all, her brother had finally married the love of his life—sixteen years after they had met, and fifteen years after her parents had told Aaron that he was no longer welcome in their home.

  The sound of hmming agreement came down the line, and Ashton could practically hear the lewd thoughts and memories that her brother was projecting.

  Cutting him off before he could bring on non-pregnancy-related sickness by giving her a play-by-play of his time on the lush beaches of Hawaii, Ashton shared her news for the first time. “I’m pregnant.”

  Okay, maybe a little lead-in would have been smart, she thought as the hmming became a rapidly indrawn breath followed by a startled fit of coughing.

  “You’re a—who, what now?” Aaron stumbled over his words, no doubt trying to give some order to the myriad questions that were surely fighting for the right to be answered first.

  “I’m pregnant. I just—”

  But she didn’t get the chance to finish before her brother shouted down the line, “If that baby is Nathan’s, I will castrate him and make a necklace from his balls and force him to wear it to work.”

  “Somehow I think Tucker and Smith would disapprove of a ball-necklace in place of the more traditional tie, but regardless, it’s a non-issue. It’s not hi
s.”

  “Good. Fucker.”

  “Aaron,” Ashton warned, not wanting to again get into a conversation with him about the failings of her ex—she just didn’t have that kind of time or patience today.

  “Fine, fine. I’m sorry.” The apology was begrudging, but she let it roll off her back, knowing that all her brother wanted was for her to be happy. And maybe to make a necklace out of Nathan’s balls, but that was a discussion best suited for his therapist.

  “I’m happy, A. I wanted this.” She also wanted to reassure her oldest sibling, the man who had been through so much, but who’d always had her back—just as she’d always had his.

  When their parents had disowned Aaron, she had disowned them right back.

  “I’m coming over. You can explain.”

  “I’m headed down to The Avenue,” she said, referring to the bar she owned with their younger brother, Austin. “I have to get payroll done this morning.”

  “Where’s Aussie? Can’t he do it?”

  “He’ll be there, too, which is more reason for you to come in later today. I can explain to both of you at once.”

  “Ash—” he began, but she wasn’t interested in hearing him.

  “Nope. Not arguing this with you. Come around lunchtime, I can fill you and Aussie in then.”

  “Fine, but only because I get free food and drinks and the honeymoon left me broke.”

  Ashton scoffed at that. Her older brother, a hotshot lawyer, was definitely not hurting for cash. And even if he was, his new husband, Simon, was making damn good money too, as a photographer and model.

  “Whatever, A. I have to go.”

  “Wai—wait!”

  “What?” she asked, no small amount of frustration creeping into her voice. She wanted to get on with the celebration, then shower—after all, she’d peed all over seven sticks that morning; if anyone needed a shower, it was most definitely her—so she could get to work.

  “The test. I assume . . . seven times?”

  The question made her smile. “Of course.”

  “Good. Congratulations, Little,” he said, using the nickname that she’d had for as long as she could remember. The smile in his voice was noticeable, but whether it was because of her news or because she’d taken the test seven times, she didn’t know.

  She also didn’t care.

  He was happy for her.

  But more importantly, she was happy for herself.

  The number seven was Ashton’s—and her brothers’—lucky number, all of them having been born in July. This was normally a comfort, except today it was making all kinds of crazy ideas and thoughts spring to mind as she walked downstairs from her apartment above The Avenue later that morning.

  What if I have seven babies? A ridiculous idea.

  What do you even call seven babies? Something to Google later on.

  How would I possibly cope with seven whole babies?

  It was that last thought that sent her into gales of laughter when she finally dropped into the rolling desk chair in the backroom office of her bar.

  “Seven whole babies,” she said aloud, speaking to herself. “As opposed to what, you idiot, half babies? Quarter babies?”

  “What in the actual fuck are you talking about?”

  Ashton was startled by the sound of her younger brother’s voice. “Jesus Christ, Aussie. You scared the crap out of me.” She clutched her chest in an over-the-top manner, wanting to milk the moment as much as possible.

  After all, if she couldn’t stir the pot around her brothers, who could she stir it around?

  If you don’t tease your siblings, are you even related?

  “I scared you? You’re talking about half and quarter babies. I don’t even want to know what brought that on.” He moved into the room, dropping himself into the old, scarred wooden chair that they’d placed opposite the desk for those rare moments when they were in the office at the same time.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.” She waved a hand to dismiss Austin’s question, before continuing, “Aaron’s home and is coming in around lunch today. Make sure you’re here.”

  “Why?”

  “Um, he’s your brother and you haven’t seen him for two weeks?”

  “I’ve literally gone months without seeing him,” Austin reminded her, making the both of them pause ever so briefly. He’d only been seventeen when their parents had kicked Aaron out of the family, and in the months that followed, Austin, who still lived at home, was forbidden to see Aaron.

  Not that that edict stopped him from calling and messaging with their older brother until he finally graduated and moved out.

  “Whatever, dude. Just be here, okay? There are things to discuss.”

  “Like half babies?”

  “Yes, like half babies. Now get out. I need to do payroll.” She shooed him with two hands, the universal “run along” gesture placing extra emphasis on the fact that Ashton wanted him to depart the office.

  “Fine. I’ll see you later.”

  “Not if I see you first,” she called after him, unable to resist the chance to use the tired line, before getting to work.

  Or trying to, anyway.

  Ashton could admit that she was distracted. With one hand making its way down to rest on her flat belly, she felt another well of happiness rise within.

  She wanted this. For good luck’s sake, she’d taken the test seven times—something that harked back to when she and her brothers were little kids and they promised to always do, or try, things seven times to be sure they liked it—but that wasn’t enough.

  She needed certainty.

  She needed proof.

  She needed to make an appointment to see her doctor.

  After making the call and setting up an appointment for later that afternoon—thank you, last minute cancellation—Ashton once again made an attempt at work, except . . .

  Dammit, she was still distracted.

  Aaron’s question about the baby’s father—whether it was Nathan—came back to her as she tried to input numbers and times and she started to worry about how she was going to explain her pregnancy to people.

  “Turkey baster,” with a pointed finger to her swollen stomach.

  “Oh, I’m not pregnant, I just ate too many tacos post-break-up, you know.”

  “The father was a circus acrobat who swung into town, flipped my life upside down with his flexibility and his non-use of protection and exited stage right before I could tell him we had a new performer on the way.”

  Somehow, none of those explanations seemed right, though the first one was closest to the truth. Okay, so it hadn’t actually been a turkey baster, but that was the accepted euphemism for artificial insemination and she really didn’t want—or need—to get into the specifics.

  With a roll of her eyes, Ashton shook her head at herself, at her doubts. Her concerns were ones she’d already blown off during the decision-making process and they were only returning now, she suspected, because being pregnant had moved from an abstract to her new reality.

  “Get a grip, Andrews,” she whispered to the empty room, trying not to put the cart before the horse, or count her chickens before they were hatched, or any number of other clichés that would suit her current situation.

  She could worry about public opinion later.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” Austin stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it, acting as if he hadn’t heard her.

  But Ashton knew he had. He was just . . .

  “Surprised. That’s probably the best way to explain it,” Aaron said, throwing the back of his hand against Austin’s arm, a small slap to get him to stop the dramatics. “The father?”

  There was no need for him to elaborate. She knew what he wanted to know—who was he, where was he, and why wasn’t he here?

  She opened her mouth to explain, but Aaron wasn’t finished. “I meant what I said this morning, Little. If the father is that shithead, Nathan, I know some guys who can take
care of him for you.”

  “Yeah, okay, Bugsy Malone—”

  “Bugsy Malone?” Aussie questioned, interrupting her attempt to explain, again. Between the two of them, she’d never get it out and make it to her appointment on time.

  “Like the gangster. You know what he’s implying.”

  “That was a weird reference, Ash. Is that a pregnancy symptom? Pop culture references that are at least fifty-something years old?”

  “Shut up, Austin. She’s going to explain—”

  “Why do I have to shut up? It’s a genuine question. I don’t think I can survive around her if she’s going to be making jokes that only Grandma Marie would get.”

  Ashton rapped her knuckles on the table top, in an attempt to refocus her brothers’ attention, before she completely lost her shit.

  The old references might not be a pregnancy symptom, but her short fuse and churning emotions surely were. “Shut it. Both of you. I’ll explain, you’ll listen, we’ll all agree that this is good news and, more importantly, my news, my business and mine alone, and then we’ll eat because I am too hungry, too hormonal and too freakin’ sick of you two to deal with any more of your crap. Got it?”

  Austin leaned in close to Aaron, stage whispering, “That’s the first time I’ve heard one of her no-breath rambles make sense. Who says baby brain is a thing?”

  His snide aside earned him a withering look from Ashton and a smack to the back of the head from Aaron—who was clearly also trying to hide his smile at Austin’s assessment.

  “Now. Short and sweet. I don’t know the father.” She paused, watching with interest as Aaron’s face contorted as he reached his own conclusion. Austin, meanwhile, was just staring, the idea of a no-name one-night-stand clearly not offensive to him. She held up a hand to stop whatever her eldest brother was about to say, and continued, “I used a donor. I wanted this, and after Nathan and that whole debacle, I decided I wasn’t willing to wait anymore.”