by Stacey Lynn
His black eyes narrow, scanning the room. They bounce back to me and land with a ferocious scowl. “You’re not staying here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t stay here. It’s too small. What are you going to do when you have our kid here?”
I should probably start planning for that. My apartment is so small I have no idea how I’ll fit a crib in. I shrug. “I’ll figure it out.”
He flashes me a look like he’s just stepped in a steaming pile of dog crap.
“Pack your shit. You’re moving in with me.”
What? He has to be kidding. “No! Why?”
“Because this place is a shithole in an unsafe neighborhood. You can barely walk up the stairs right now and you’ve been sick. You can’t stay here alone and there’s no place to put him or anything he’ll need, like a crib.” His eyes bounce around the room again. “Where do you even sleep?”
His last question is spewed out like a vicious whip.
I point to the couch before I understand why I’m explaining myself to him. How dare he think he can boss me around. “The couch pulls out and it’s plenty comfortable. It’ll be fine.”
“Good God. You can’t raise him like this—without a car to get around and walking five flights of stairs. How are you going to manage him with a stroller or diapers or groceries?”
He’s shaking his head.
My heels dig into the carpet. Him him him. Since when did our baby become a boy?
I curl my fingers around the door and lean toward him. “What if it’s not a him, Braxton?”
His head jerks back. “What?”
“You keep calling the baby a him. What if it’s a her?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
Gah! Men are so dense.
“I mean. What makes you suddenly think it’s a boy? And what if it’s a girl? Would you still be this bossy? Or even want it?”
Face paling, he looks like he’s the pregnant one with severe morning sickness.
“Holy—” He shakes his head rapidly. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t mean anything by it. Do you really think I’m that big of an asshole? I’m trying to take care of you. Of both of you.”
His expression is so shocked, so hurt, I’m unable to form words. I don’t even know where this sudden rage is coming from.
Instead, he takes my silence as an answer. “Wow. Okay then.” His shoulders drop and he runs a hand firmly down his face. “I’ll see you at the doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. Get some rest and make sure you take your medicine.”
He grabs the doorknob, pulling the door from my hand, and I stumble forward, barely catching myself before he slams it closed. His heavy footsteps echo down the hall until he hits the top step and I’m still left, staring at the door.
I want to run after him. Talk to him. Why is it every conversation we have ends in an argument when for one weekend, we got along so splendidly?
But the sudden movement of throwing open the door and starting to charge into the hall churns my stomach.
I do an about-face, run to my bathroom, and barely make it before I empty the contents of the meager breakfast Braxton had made for me.
* * *
—
“You have to apologize to him, Cara. I hate to say it, but I’m totally on Braxton’s side on this one.”
I eye my best friend, chilling with a glass of Prosecco on my recently cleaned-up couch. I know without a doubt she’s absolutely right. Whatever came over me left me as soon as I cleaned up my most recent round of morning sickness.
My shoulders heave with a knowing sigh. “I know. He was just so bossy, I don’t even know what came over me. And it isn’t like the entire weekend has been normal.”
And I feel even more crappy considering thirty minutes after Braxton left, Jenna showed. She’s spent the entire day helping me clean—doing most of it while demanding I rest—and taking care of me.
And why?
Because Braxton the Saint called her. I’m not sure it’s possible for the guy to get any nicer when I’ve been nothing but a raving lunatic.
My hand settles on my surprisingly settled stomach, and my gaze drifts lustfully back to Jenna’s Prosecco. Drinking alcohol in front of your pregnant best friend should be grounds for dismissal.
“It’s also not Braxton’s fault you’re on a nine-month trip to Hormonal Crazy Town. Cut the guy some slack.”
“A nine-month what?” I glare at her, already hating that so much of my life is uncontrollable.
Jenna laughs off my warning glare.
“Come on, I’ve read What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
“You’ve read—”
“Well, yeah, haven’t you? I mean, my best friend’s pregnant. I figured I need to know what’s going on.”
I toss my head back into the couch and press the heel of my palms into my eyes. I’ve managed to pull up a due date calculator and call my midwife, but that’s about all I’ve done. “Gosh, no. I haven’t read a thing. I’m totally failing at this mom thing!” A pillow smacks my hands and I throw it into my lap, glaring at Jenna. “What?”
“Stop all the negative talk. You’re going to be an amazing mom. And you’re an incredible woman. You have to stop listening to all the self-doubt your parents spoon-fed you. I wouldn’t be friends with a loser, Cara.” She sips her Prosecco and wiggles the flute in the air. “I’m too cool for that.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Well, learn to stop, and get the books or get online. And when you’re ready, apologize to Braxton.”
I throw the pillow back at her, almost smiling when it hits the glass in her hand. “When did you get so wise?”
“When I became an old married woman.”
She waves her blindingly sparkling rock in the air and I laugh.
We change the topic from my pregnancy to her work as an interior decorator and hours later, when she leaves after one hundred assurances I’ll be fine, I send a text to Braxton, apologizing for losing my mind on him.
But it doesn’t matter, because he never replies.
Chapter 8
Cara
I’ve been on pins and needles the last few days, checking my phone an exceedingly huge number of times, and every time I see Braxton hasn’t sent a text, a small lump has formed in the pit of my stomach. I can’t even describe how horrible I feel for the rotten things I’ve done and said to him, and the fact he hasn’t accepted my latest apology has worry niggling in my mind at all hours of the day and night.
Gone are my erotic memories of the way he touched me. They’ve now been replaced with fear he won’t be here, that he won’t come and he’ll walk away, not only from me, but our child. And through all of it, I’ve done a lot of thinking, trying to determine the answer to the question he asked me multiple times.
What do you want from me? Why are you telling me?
It’s not because I wanted him to know he was going to be a dad. It’s not because I want him to be a part of his baby’s life.
It’s because I want him to be a part of mine. Which is the most terrifying thought I’ve had yet. It puts my heart on the line, it makes me risk my own safety…it’s forcing me to follow what Jimmy’s dying dream for me was…Live, Cara. Live for both of us. Be true to you.
Tears blur my vision as I walk around the corner of my midwife’s office building. It’s a plain, brown brick building with peeling and chipped bricks on the corners, completely nondescript and unimpressive. Other than the sign stuck to the entry glass doors, I never would have known this was a medical office. The first time I came here, I almost turned around and left, not from nerves, but from terror that the inside would be just as unimpressive.
Instead, the office is small, but brig
ht and warm, and even though it’s only my third appointment, it already feels like home with the comforting brown microfiber couches and potted plants. There’s a warmth in the air mingled with a gentle scent of lavender.
As I pull open the door, expecting to inhale the same calm aroma, I pull to an immediate stop when Braxton’s head lifts and our gazes meet. His expression gives me nothing. I don’t know whether to sigh in relief that he’s here, or arm myself for a battle.
He’s sitting on one of the few couches, a gray knitted hat in his large, inked hands, knees spread, worn jeans fitting him perfectly down to his scuffed brown boots. I take him in all in a matter of seconds, startling when I hear my name called.
“Good morning, Cara.”
I turn abruptly from Braxton and face the receptionist.
“Hey, Katie, how are you?”
Her shoulder-length light brown hair swishes as she tilts her head to the side. “I think that’s what I’m supposed to be asking you.”
“I’m good. Better in the last few days.”
“That’s good. Pam told me you had quite the weekend.”
I fight against the urge to look at Braxton. “It wasn’t my best yet.”
It was one of my worst and not just because of the excessive puking.
Katie’s fingers clickety-clack on the keyboard and she grins at me when she’s done. Her smile might be what sealed the deal for me in keeping this small midwife practice instead of switching to a larger OB office with more than ten doctors. They’re not just personal here, they truly care, and I really, really need to feel that right now.
“I’ll let Pam know you’re here. Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. I turn and even though I’d like to hide, to take another seat in the small office, as far away from Braxton as I can get, I slide onto the same couch as him, sitting close to the middle. I’m close enough to get a whiff of his cologne, not close enough to have him feel like I’m invading his personal space.
“Hey,” I say lamely, sitting down and wrapping my wool coat tighter around my waist. The weather is gloomy and brutal and they’ve been forecasting days of rain. The skies have been cloudy and it’s been so completely depressing every time I glance outside my window, I haven’t been able to paint for a week. Although some of that might be my attitude as well.
“You’re feeling better?” Braxton asks. His grip tightens around his hat like he’s strangling it, but it’s his eyes that snag my attention. The dark, rich color in them, the thick black lashes rimming his eyes, curling up. He has eyes that women spend thousands of dollars a year on products for to make them look almost as good his natural ones.
“I am. Thanks for asking.”
“I got your text.”
My lips press together, holding back a snippy comment, and I turn away. “I see.”
“I think after this, we should talk.”
Talk. Of course. If we were dating, I’d know a breakup was coming by the defeat in his voice. “Sure,” I finally say. “Yeah, of course.”
“Good.”
Goodness, it’s not possible for us to be any more awkward and I peer at the door, willing Pam’s assistant, Kim, to walk through and call my name.
When it doesn’t happen, I watch the second hand of the clock above the door rotate in a full circle, the minute feeling like an hour. I turn to Braxton and smile hesitantly. “I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah?” His head is cocked to the side, eyes on me, and at the edges they crinkle as his lips lift into a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good,” I reply.
“Good.”
His smile widens. My cheeks flush at the sight of its beauty, and I turn my head away, shaking it and laughing nervously. “This is strange.”
“We’ll get through it.”
I only hope he’s right.
* * *
—
I’m sitting on the exam table, fully clothed, with Braxton standing next to me. Pam has done all her preliminary checks, letting me know my hCG levels are strong, and we’ve talked about the weekend, about the records she has from the hospital visit. Both Braxton and I have answered her questions, and her encouraging smile when I tell her I’m only puking when I feel my stomach becoming empty instead of all day gives me hope everything will be okay. She’s even written me a different prescription for antinausea meds, a new form of tablet that dissolves under the tongue. The pills I’d had were small but difficult to swallow, and I’m almost excited to get the new script filled.
At least I was, until she told me she wanted to check the baby’s heartbeat.
“We can’t do an external one?” I ask, choking and my skin paling. I glance nervously at Braxton, who has absolutely no idea why the idea of hearing the heartbeat with an internal monitor might make me nervous.
“We can,” Pam replies. Her short but crimpy-curly blond hair bounces on her shoulders as she smiles. “But you’re still early enough that sometimes it can be difficult. I think it’d be easier, more reassuring for you, to do an internal check.”
Internal. Right.
“I’ll give you a few moments to disrobe.”
My cheeks burn as she gives me a reassuring pat on the knee and leaves the room. I came to confirm the pregnancy and at my first appointment, I told Pam the dad didn’t know yet. The second appointment, she seemed almost surprised I didn’t bring him with me. So her surprise at seeing Braxton might be because she believed I was alone, or she’s swooning over all his exposed ink and a jaw meant for cutting granite.
But now that I’m alone with Braxton, and I’m supposed to disrobe in front of him, I feel like vomiting in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy.
“I can leave,” Braxton says, sensing my unease.
“This is silly,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been naked in front of you, right? You’ve seen me—”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
Goodness, I’m a wreck. “No, I am, it’s just, an internal check isn’t my favorite, and, well, now I’m getting naked and you’re here and want to talk and God, I can’t stop rambling and I’m so sorry and—”
Big, strong, and warm hands clasp my cheeks and Braxton is there, in front of me, bending down. He’s inches away and his presence and his touch snap my mouth closed as I gawk at him.
And then, he’s not just watching me, he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips to mine, and I’m so shocked by his touch and the feel of him and the taste of him, my lips part, my eyes pop open, and his tongue slides out, sweeping along my upper lip before he’s pulling back, separating, ending our kiss way too soon.
And he’s smiling. Full out, all white teeth, dark eyes glimmering in amusement while I gape at him. My heart is beating so fast I fear a heart attack is on the horizon.
“What was that?”
“I thought if I kissed you, you’d calm down.”
He couldn’t be more wrong. My hand moves to my chest, the frenetic pace of my heartbeat is so severe I’m gasping. “That…well, that didn’t calm me down.”
“Yeah.” He grins. And winks. Winks at me! “It didn’t calm me down either. But Pam’s going to be back soon, so how about you get ready without the freak-out, okay?”
His hands are still on my cheeks. And then they’re sliding to my neck, to my shoulders where he squeezes in the most reassuring and comforting way possible. “I’ll turn around.”
Right. I still have to take my pants and underwear off. “Okay.”
He leans toward me again, presses his lips to my forehead and then he’s gone, giving me his back, and even though he’s wearing a leather coat, I can tell by his stance that he’s not nearly as comfortable as he’s pretending to be.
I quickly take everything off and drape the
paper sheet over my lap, leaving my socks on, and when I’m ready, the edges of the sheet tucked under my thighs and backside, Pam knocks on the door.
“Ready?” she calls as she’s already pushing open the door.
“Yup.” I sound like I’m about ready to croak, and Braxton’s deep, rumbling chuckle worsens rattled nerves. He kissed me!
I raise my hand to my mouth and as my fingertips press my lips, they’re taken away, gripped in Braxton’s warm hold. He smiles down at me knowingly and I force my attention on Pam.
She pulls the internal monitor out of the drawer, along with a bottle of lubricant and a condom, and Braxton’s grip on my hand turns almost bone-crushing.
“Is that—”
“Yup.” I cut him off.
“Um.”
“Now you see why I wanted the external one,” I mutter quietly.
I can’t look at him. My cheeks are on fire, and for some absolutely insane reason, other parts of my body are warming and this should not be happening at my midwife’s office.
“So,” Pam says, turning around and back to business. Except it’s hard to take her seriously as she waves what looks like a massive vibrator in her hand. “We’re going to insert this inside of you.”
“Holy shit,” Braxton mutters. And God, kill me. Please kill me now.
If Pam hears him, she ignores him as she steps toward me, and pulls out a set of stirrups from beneath the table. “I’m going to need you to lie down, Cara, and spread your legs, and slip down to the edge of the bed for me.”
“I feel like I’ve heard this before,” I say, unable to stop myself. My filter has evaporated along with my self-respect and all of this is so absolutely humiliating.
Pam pauses, glances at me and then at Braxton and nods, understanding. But I swear, as her gaze sweeps down Braxton’s arms, even she blushes. Which is great…my midwife thinks my non-boyfriend baby daddy is hot.
“I feel like I’ve said this before,” Braxton says, and both of our eyes whip to him. My gracious. He’s smiling, shoulders shaking like he’s holding back the world’s most boisterous laugh, and it’s all I can do to not kill him while he’s standing there, glancing between the monitor-slash-vibrator and my spread legs and I can’t hold it in anymore.
