Knocked Up

by Stacey Lynn

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  “Surprise?” Her brows bounce up. “A good one?”

  “I hope so.”

  I take her hand when she’s close enough, pulling her behind me, and then I push open the door to the room. We’re blasted with the afternoon sun shining directly inside the windows and a gasp comes from behind me.

  “What did you do?” Her hands are at her mouth, eyes wide, skipping and dancing over all of her stuff. I had some empty shelves, so I placed a lot of her smaller buckets of brushes and rags on those. Her paints are separated by type: acrylic, latex, watercolors, on the floor in wooden buckets she already had. Her paint dishes are stacked on another shelf, and her canvases, the completed ones, are spread throughout the room, where I’ve hung two of my favorite ones.

  One’s a view of Lovejoy Street, with its boardwalk sidewalks, metal chairs placed outside a well-loved bakery. Trees line the sidewalk, cars zip along the street, black canopies overhang the doorways of various restaurants. The entire painting is as if she pulled up a chair and an easel, one sunny, slow morning, and painted until she’d finished.

  It’s amazing, and it’s part of Portland, and as soon as I saw it, I had to hang it so it could be seen every day.

  “You did this?” Cara asks, walking into the room, stopping in front of her painting.

  “It’s too incredible to be hidden behind other canvases.” Her cheeks turn a rosy pink and she shakes her head. “Have you ever showed these to Luca? They’re way better than that other artist’s stuff.”

  “Thanks.” She laughs but it’s an uneasy sound. Tucking a small chunk of her hair behind her ear, she shakes her head again. “I haven’t. He knows I paint, but I’m not trained. It’s just in my head.”

  Which makes her that much more impressive.

  “You should show him. He’d give you your own show in a second.” And I’d bet money down she’d sell out.

  “You’re sweet,” she says, turning from her painting to the room. Her fingers brush over the tops of her canvases, eyes examining the bins and buckets where I’ve placed everything, as if she’s mentally calculating all of her stuff is here.

  “I’m honest.”

  She makes another laughing sound, like she’s humoring me, but joke’s on her. I’m taking all this, or photos of them, into Luca first chance I get. If she wants to be an artist, she shouldn’t hide everything because she lacks confidence.

  “I can’t believe you did all this today.”

  “I told you that if you moved in, this can be your art studio.”

  “But this is temporary,” she reminds me.

  I shrug. Whatever. She can keep thinking it if she wants.

  “Right,” she mutters, her lips tugging up at the ends. Shaking her head, as if she can’t believe either me or what I’ve done, she walks to the windows. “It’s beautiful here. So perfect to paint in. Thank you, Braxton.”

  “I thought it’d help,” I say, letting the words not spoken linger in the air…after last night.

  “Yeah.” Her hand rests against the glass and I move to her, eating up the space between in long, quick strides before I settle my hands on her hips and slide them toward her stomach. I rest my chest against her back and settle my chin on the top of her head.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “They’re not the nicest people in the first place, but even I’m shocked at what they said last night. I keep replaying it in my mind, keep hearing them telling you to take care of it. It sucks.” In the window’s reflection, her chin wobbles. “I think…I think I’ll give them a few days to calm down and absorb everything and maybe see if we can talk to them again?”

  Sounds like hell. “Think they’ll be willing to do that? Because I’m not going to lie, Cara, I really don’t know if I’ll be able to control my temper if your dad is a dick like that to you again.”

  “I know.” She sounds sad, almost broken. Then, a cold chuckle bursts through her lips. “I wonder what they’d say if we invited them here for dinner.”

  I grin, press my lips to her head. “You want that, we can do it.” It’ll kill me to be polite to them, but at least if it’s in my own damn place, I can kick them out. But I also know the game she’s playing, and her parents aren’t going to give a shit I live in a penthouse, they’ll still look at me and see a thug.

  “Nah. I don’t want that. I keep wanting my parents to be decent people and accept people for who they are. Or me, at the very least.”

  “They should.”

  “They won’t.” Her hand falls from the window and she presses it to the back of my palm. Her skin is cool from the glass. I flip my hand over and hold hers to her stomach, my hands on top of hers. “They won’t ever do it. I don’t even know if it’s worth the argument. It might make me immature, but I think it’s best if I avoid them for a while. I’ll let them come to me. I have no doubt they’ll have more opinions they’ll feel the need to share.”

  She spits out “opinions” like the distasteful word I’m sure it will be from them. I figure they’ll have demands and expectations and requirements, not necessarily thoughts and opinions, but who the fuck cares. I don’t.

  And if last night’s meeting taught me anything, it’s that Cara has a backbone not only when it comes to her parents, but for fighting for what she wants.

  “Whatever you want, Cara. I’m here to support you in that, you know that, right?”

  Her fingers press more tightly against her stomach and she nods. “Yeah. I get that.”

  “Good. And now, since we’ve got that shit out of the way, I’ve got more plans for you, so get your butt to your room, shower, and get dressed. We’re going out.”

  Her shoulders slump. “Do we have to?”

  “Yup. We’re picking up Dan and Jenna for dinner at Luella’s Ristorante. I already have reservations made.” At least tonight she’ll spend it with people happy for her, who love her and care about her. Hopefully, that will wash away the remaining pall from last night. At least she’ll remember she has people in her life who give a crap.

  She sighs. “I don’t know, Brax—”

  “Want you to spend the night having fun. You haven’t had it easy, haven’t had the energy. I want to give you this, Cara.”

  “No, it’s not that. I want to see Jenna. I’m just not sure I can stomach Italian food.”

  Finally, an easy fucking problem to solve. “What do you want, then? I’ll change the reservations.”

  She turns slowly, and I barely loosen my arms, but let them drift to her hips as she moves until she’s facing me. “Are you always this agreeable?”

  “I think you’ll remember there are definitely times I prefer to be a bit bossy, honey.” Her cheeks flush the way I knew they would. “But I really don’t want you puking at Luella’s. It’s a nice place.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Whatever.”

  “What sounds good to you?”

  “I don’t know. Steak, maybe?”

  “You got it. Go get ready. I’ll make the calls.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for making all of this so easy for me.” Before I can tell her it’s not a problem, because it’s not a problem to change reservations from Luella’s to the City Grill where I actually know one of the sous-chefs, she slides her hand to my cheek, rolls to her toes, and presses her lips to mine.

  She tastes like sunshine and sweetness and I take her kiss, losing myself in the feel of her, the fact she’s kissing me and not the other way around, and I wonder for a brief moment, if we can just cancel dinner, order in again, and have the entire night to ourselves.

  Before I can decide which is better, she pulls back and licks her bottom lip slowly, sealing in the taste of me and grinning.

  “I’ll g
o get dressed.”

  I watch her leave, my gaze trained to the swell of her luscious ass as she leaves. Then I readjust my hard dick, make some calls, and head to my own bedroom to get dressed.

  The City Grill requires a suit. It’ll be the second time in two weeks I’m wearing one for her. If she eats well, has some laughs, and enjoys the night with her friends and perhaps shares her appreciation of that fun with me later in less-clothed ways, I’ll wear a fucking toga if that’s what it takes to make her happy.

  Chapter 19

  Cara

  I’m just over thirteen weeks pregnant. My previously nonexistent tummy area now holds a small pooch that makes wearing my dressy clothes difficult.

  I’m also learning pregnancy cravings come at the absolute worst times possible.

  The four of us have been seated at a beautiful table on the thirtieth floor of the U.S. Bancorp Tower. Beams between the windows are covered in warming golds and tans, cherrywood chairs and white tablecloths…it’s elegant and relaxed, casual but classy, a place that makes you want to settle in with good friends and good food and enjoy a great night of dining and company.

  When we arrived earlier at the base of the building, I’d looked all the way to the top, knowing exactly where were headed, and with an awe in my voice I didn’t bother to hide, I had turned to Braxton. “You got us reservations here? How?”

  “It’s all about who you know, honey,” he’d said.

  Behind us, Jenna had snickered.

  Turns out one of his repeat clients at MadInk is a sous-chef at the restaurant and was able to pull some strings, not only getting us an excellent table with a window view so we could see the Cascade Range in the distance, but he’s had a complimentary bottle of champagne delivered to our table as well.

  Lucky for them. Jenna laughed when I glared at her happily filling her champagne glass while I’m stuck with sparkling water.

  I’m scanning my menu knowing their Wagyu top sirloin is succulent and mouth-watering and their rice rolls are made to utter perfection along with their rack of lamb, when I glance over the prosciutto stuffed chicken, which I’ve had before and is amazing, and feel my stomach roll.

  “This was a really great idea, Braxton,” Jenna says, forcing me to lift my gaze. “It’s really great to have all of us together.”

  “No problem,” he says, nodding toward her.

  She takes a sip of her champagne and goes back to her menu, whispering to Dan about what sounds good to him.

  My gaze goes to the mountain range and I take several slow and deep breaths to try to settle my stomach. When that doesn’t work, I dig into my small clutch, grateful I remembered to bring some of my ginger candies.

  “What’s wrong?” Braxton asks when I crumple the plastic wrapper and shove it inside my handbag.

  “Nothing. I’ll be fine.” I take a sip of my water, the iced chill doing nothing to soothe my quickly heating skin.

  I know exactly what this means, and I’m regretting every single moment of what I know is sure to come.

  One wrong whiff of a chicken being hauled past me and I’ll be embarrassing myself and our table.

  God. Sometimes being pregnant truly sucks. I might be used to the idea, growing excited on the best days to think about raising a child, but mostly it’s just terrifying and nauseating and now, on a night when Braxton’s planned to hand me a slice of fun, all I can think of is my food ending up all over the floor.

  Shit.

  “You look white as a sheet,” Braxton says. He presses his hand to my forehead and scowls. “And you’re hot. Why didn’t you tell me you’re not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine,” I grit out.

  “Um, you don’t look fine,” Jenna says. She circles her finger in the air, gesturing toward my face. “You look sick.”

  “Just a wave of morning-slash-all-day sickness. It’ll pass. I promise.”

  She gives me a concerned look and glances at Braxton. “We can go somewhere else.”

  “Good idea.” He crumples his napkin on the table.

  I grab on to his forearm as he stands from the table. “No, we don’t have to. I love this place.”

  It’s true. I do. And I flash him pleading eyes. I hate we’re making such a fuss when I’ve already changed the restaurant we were originally going to go to. This sucks. And yet, as Braxton grins down at me, he’s not the least bit annoyed.

  “I want you to have a good night with friends, the place doesn’t mean shit to me. Let me go speak to the host and explain what’s going on and settle our tab.”

  We’ve ordered nothing except the champagne that was free, but it’s not easy to get reservations on a Saturday. If I’ve made him waste money, I’m going to kick myself.

  “It’s fine,” Jenna says. “We’ll go wherever sounds good to you, or back to Braxton’s and get pizza or takeout. I just want to hang out. It’s been a while. Plus—” she grins and winks, “—I want to keep swooning over the way Braxton looks at you.”

  She’s delusional. “Jenna—” I warn.

  “How does he look at her?” Dan asks.

  “Like he wants to get her alone and rip that dress off her.” She grins.

  Dan laughs and shakes his head. “What does that look like?”

  She leans toward her husband and grins wickedly. “Sort of like you did earlier, when I came down wearing this dress.”

  “Ah.” He nods. Jenna flushes. Their cuteness might be what makes me puke. “Now I get it.”

  “Gross,” I moan and they both turn to me, cheeks flushed with apparently a night of loving already taken care of, or at least started. “Stop.”

  “Come on.” Jenna stands, and Dan helps her into her coat before coming to my side and helping me with mine. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. Give me a minute to think about it.”

  I wait until we’re out of the elevator, the quick speed rushing through me and giving me a small dose of motion sickness, something else I get to thank pregnancy for.

  When we’re out in the fresh air, Jenna asks me again.

  “You know, I think nachos sound great. And chips and salsa, maybe some queso.” I’m already dreaming of a hot and spicy burrito from El Gaucho when Braxton laughs.

  “Got it. Let’s roll.”

  * * *

  —

  “This whole night reminds me exactly why I’m not planning on knocking you up anytime soon, babe.” This comes from Dan in the backseat of Braxton’s car.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Puking, sickness. Hell, you’re picky enough. We don’t need to add to it.”

  If I didn’t know Dan well enough to know he’s only teasing with his typical dry humor, I’d punch him.

  Based on his oomph and the way he rubs his bicep when I glance back in the rearview mirror, I figure Jenna did it for me.

  “Shut up. You’re totally making me pregnant on our anniversary.”

  “I am?” he asks, laughing.

  I look at Braxton. He’s grinning, clearly enjoying their banter. Knowing Dan, he started it just to not make me feel such an asshole for forcing us out of a really nice restaurant to head to a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place.

  “Yes.”

  “Why our anniversary?”

  “Because.” Jenna sighs like she’s exhausted from even having to explain this. “Then we’ll get Cara’s hand-me-downs.”

  Dan barks out a laugh. Braxton’s shoulder shakes like he’s fighting one.

  I turn in my seat. “What? Are you crazy?”

  “No!” Jenna exclaims, and her eyes are wide and serious. “Have you read how much baby gear you need? There’s like a shit ton. Plus all the clothes they only fit into for a few weeks, nursing items you won’t need
after a few months. Pumps and pillows and cribs and playpens and car seats and strollers.”

  My eyes pop open with every item she lists. I haven’t even considered the gear…or the cost.

  “What does that have to do with our anniversary?” Dan asks. Admittedly, I’m wondering the same thing. As nutty as Jenna is, she’s also a planner. And a huge fan of upcycling.

  “Seasons. Then the babies will be born the same time of year and ours will be able to wear the same clothes as Cara’s.”

  “They’re so fucking bonkers,” Braxton says, whispering to me. He’s been holding my hand and at his statement, he squeezes it, while Jenna and Dan continue arguing in the backseat.

  “They drive each other crazy.”

  “I think it’s their form of love.”

  “Hey!” Jenna says, and her hand slaps my headrest. “Don’t talk about us like we’re not here, and help me out anyway, Cara. Doesn’t the idea of everything you need make you hyperventilate?”

  An embarrassed heat flushes my cheeks. “I haven’t even thought about it,” I admit on a mutter.

  “What? Aren’t you reading that book I told you about?”

  “Um…” I shrug and look at Braxton.

  He looks just as befuddled as me. “What book?”

  “What to Expect When You’re Expecting!” Jenna shouts. “It’s like the bible of all things baby- and pregnancy-related. How are you two not prepared for this!?”

  “In my defense,” Braxton says, flicking his gaze to Jenna in the mirror and back to the road, “I’ve only known about this for a few weeks.”

  “And you’re a guy,” Dan cuts in.

  He nods. “And I’m a guy.”

  “And what does that mean?” Jenna snaps. “That only women are supposed to know this? You do know you’re responsible for a pregnancy too, right?”

  “Yeah,” Dan says, face cold as stone. “The good parts.”

  I burst into a laugh, Braxton does the same. “Cowboy down, Jenna, you’re not even pregnant yet.”