by Moss, Brooke
There was a swift knock at the door, and Fletcher’s head of messy golden hair poked around the corner. “Lexie?”
When he spotted me, a grin spread across his face, and my heart flipped inside of my chest. “Hi, Dr. Haybee.”
“Doctor?” He shut the door behind him. “I like to think we’re on a first name basis, considering the fact that I held your hair while you vomited a few weeks ago.”
“Okay. Hi, Fletcher.” I caught myself giggling, and cleared my throat. Good Lord in heaven, he was so handsome. This time his white lab coat was unbuttoned over a wrinkled blue button down and a pair of dark grey slacks. The shirt was un-tucked, and open over a white tee shirt, making him look like adorably rumpled and casual.
“Did you try the ginger?” Happy wrinkles formed in the corners of his eyes.
I attempted to tear my eyes away from his, but found myself incapable. “Yeah, it worked. Well, a little bit. I’m getting tired of ginger foods now.”
He patted my knee kindly. “Keep it up, and hopefully the nausea will subside soon.”
There was a shifting of an overpriced handbag next to me, and I heard the click of Marisol’s three-inch heels scrape on the floor. She’d worn her “low shoes” for work, and saved the five-inch platforms for her day off. She cleared her throat and nudged my leg, and I cringed inwardly.
Please let him be immune to Marisol’s tractor beam.
Alas…he wasn’t.
“Oh, hi.” He blinked a few times as if the shininess coming off of Marisol was too bright.
My shoulders slumped when Marisol put out her hand demurely, tilted her chin downward, and gazed Fletcher through the veil of her long, dark eyelashes.
“Marisol Vargas,” she purred.
Fletcher shook her hand. His eyes were locked on Marisol’s heart shaped face and plump, full lips. “Fletcher Haybee.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Marisol’s words were like warm honey, all drippy and oozy-like. Cripes, if I listened to her much longer, I was going to wind up turned on, too.
She leaned forward in her seat just enough to show an innocent amount of cleavage, and Fletcher’s eyes widened. “A pleasure to meet you, too. You’re Lexie’s friend, I take it.”
“Business partner,” I said flatly, watching as he succumbed to the power of Marisol’s bust line. I knew I would rue the day I helped her recover from augmentation surgery.
“Oh, don’t be modest.” Marisol laughed, and I noticed how breathy she sounded now that Fletcher was in the room. Like she was going for a Marilyn Monroe thing. “We’ve been friends since college. We’re practically family.”
My jaw dropped, but neither of them noticed. Sure, Marisol was one of my best friends, but family? She’d long since declared that mine and Candace’s family was crazy—not that she was wrong—and only came to family events serving alcohol. I loved Marisol, but it was the same way I loved my brother, Darren. Love, with a dash of confusion and irritation rolled in.
Fletcher grinned at me. “Well, any family of Lexie’s is welcome here. It’s nice to see she’s got a good support system.”
“That’s me!” Marisol beamed, her grin wide and fetching. “I’m always here for our little single mama.” She added a little pat on my knee for the effect.
I suppressed a scoff. When I’d asked her if she planned on helping me with the baby on occasion, she’d responded by making a gagging sound and announced, “As long as it doesn’t shit on me.”
I focused on Fletcher’s shirt to keep from pulling Marisol’s glossy hair. We just needed to get through my appointment, get a new prescription for prenatal vitamins, then get back to Eats & Sweets. I squinted at the white tee shirt underneath. I detected some writing on the right side of the chest that indicated he was wearing another vintage rock tee. Possibly a Lynyrd Skynyrd this time. My pulse raced.
Fletcher and Marisol’s laughter jolted me out of my fashion examination. When I looked up, she was holding his arm, laughing airily at whatever he’d said. He was grinning cheekily, obviously proud of himself for making the hot chick happy. Dear Lord, like a kid in a candy store.
“Oh, Fletcher!” she breathed. “You are so funny. Lexie, you didn’t tell me he was so funny!”
Marisol was channeling her inner sex kitten today. Seriously, it sounded like she needed an inhaler. “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I mumbled.
Note to self: do not bring Marisol to anymore appointments.
Fletcher tore his attention away from Marisol. “Well, Lexie, should we check that baby’s heartbeat?”
“Sure.” Laying down, I lifted up the bottom hem of my shirt. Fletcher scooped a hand-held Doppler off of the table, and looked down at my jeans. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought I saw a hint of color stain his cheeks.
“I’m gonna need you to unbutton your pants, please,” he said politely.
“I’ll bet you say that often, doctor,” Marisol purred from her perch on a stool.
I slapped my forehead. “Good grief. Mar, take it down a notch.”
She giggled. “I call it how I see it.”
Now I was certain Fletcher was blushing. Looking up at the ceiling and wishing I were at least half as hot as Marisol, I unbuttoned my jeans and folded them down. “Will that work?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” After squirting the blue goo onto my skin, he pressed the hand held microphone onto my lower abdomen and turned the instrument on.
Fletcher’s face turned serious as he slowly rolled the microphone across my skin. I held my breath. After a few seconds, the familiar galloping sound of my baby’s heartbeat filled the room, and his blue eyes lit up.
“There we go,” he said. We listened for fifteen or twenty seconds, while Marisol picked at her nail polish in the corner. “It’s at about a hundred thirty-five beats per minute.”
“That’s different from my last visit.” My voice cracked. “Is that okay? Is he okay? Or she?”
Fletcher smiled down at me kindly. “It’s just fine. The beats per minute will fluctuate from day to day, hour to hour. Just like we have relaxed times of day, and active times of day. Your baby does, too.”
I nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “You’re bonding with your baby.”
My cheeks reddened. I was already talking to my baby in the mornings while I got ready for work. “I’m weird.”
Fletcher put the Doppler down, fetched a tissue, and began wiping my skin off gently. My heart started to thrum inside of my chest like a truck engine, and I was sure he could hear it, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just cleaned off my skin, then held a hand out to me. When I took it, he pulled me back into a sitting position, so that we were just half a foot apart.
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not weird. You’re a mom.”
My heart stopped vibrating and took flight. Well, that is until Marisol’s face poked up between us, and she blurted, “He? You called the kid a he. What did that microphone do-hickey thing say?”
I blushed and buttoned my pants. “I just call it a he. It feels strange to refer to my child as an it.”
“You’re really getting into this whole motherhood thing.” She snickered, then noticed Fletcher looking at her. “I mean, who can blame you? You know, creating life, and all that jazz.”
Fletcher leaned against the table. “Life already has been made. Lexie’s just forming the connection with her child that every mother gains. It’s pretty cool to watch.” He looked at me and winked.
Marisol nodded with false solemnity when Fletcher glanced at her, then rolled her eyes when he looked away. Oh, she was laying it on thick today.
As Fletcher started asking me questions about how I’d been feeling over the past few weeks, and of the results of my iron tests and urine dips, Marisol went into full-on flirt mode. By the end of my twenty-minute appointment, she was leaning into Fletcher so much her cleavage was practically resting on his elbow, and she’d actu
ally referred to him as “big boy.”
Twice.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when he watched her flip long, glossy brown hair. It felt like I was sitting in on an episode of The Bachelor, where I was just the poor schmuck who got to hold the bowl of roses.
When Fletcher patted me on the knee and announced he was going to go grab some prenatal vitamin samples for me, I jumped. When he excused himself from the exam room, Marisol practically jumped into my lap.
“Holy Hannah, he is hot!” she squealed. “Thanks for bringing me!”
I patted her back, wishing I had a knife. Then I mentally scolded myself for wanting to murder Marisol. “Oh, um, you’re welcome. I’m glad you had fun.”
“Fun?” She looked at her reflection in the stainless steel paper towel dispenser. “Dr. Hottie can give me a pap smear anytime.”
I almost threw up in my mouth. “Oh good grief, Mar.”
“What?” She reached into her blouse and adjusted her boobs. “He’s absolutely gorgeous, and single. No wedding ring or tan line. I don’t know how you can stand it.” She caught my reflection in the dispenser. “Maybe you can’t. Are you interested in him?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
This was one of those pivotal life moments when I very well could have chosen to do what my heart wanted.
Just like when my ex husband called me a week after packing all of his things and leaving me without so much as a note. I should have forced him to explain to me why the hell he’d left me high and dry. But I’d been afraid of his response. I didn’t want to know what I might have done wrong. So rather than facing words I might not have wanted to hear, I’d said goodbye, hung up, taken out my contact lenses, and gone to bed, hoping his quarter life crisis would be over by the time my alarm went off in the morning.
Tell her. If you like him, tell her. She’ll back off. She might be sort of trampy, but she’s no man-stealer. If she knows you like Fletcher, she’ll find a new leg to hump.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the waist of my pants brush against my abdomen. Fletcher had missed a spot of the jelly, and there was an area on my stomach that was still cold and sticky. My hand went to my belly, and my shoulders dropped a few inches.
I was embarking on the most difficult and life-altering experience I was ever going to have, and there wasn’t any room for a romance.
Was someone who looked like Fletcher Haybee going to lust after me once my belly popped out and my ankles doubled in size? How about after the kid was here, and I was up all night breastfeeding until I was so tired my left eyelid twitched?
I watched as Marisol adjusted her blouse, smoothing it down over her tiny waist and curvy hips. That was the kind of woman Fletcher was going to want. Someone who could make red velvet cupcakes from scratch and looked like she could be a pro on Dancing With the Stars.
“No.” I hated lying, especially to one of my best friends. But it was for the best. Right? “I… I’m not interested.”
Her dark eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really.” I smiled falsely, and it gave me a headache.
“Why not? He’s positively edible.”
I shrugged and looked down at my midriff. “I’ve got enough on my plate, I guess.”
“So you don’t mind if I ask him out?” She petted her hair extensions like a cat.
“Nope. Go for it.” I bit the insides of my cheeks.
“Yay!” She groaned, low and predatory. I wanted to cry. “He doesn’t know what he’s in for!”
“I’ve got an idea,” I murmured, as the door opened again. Fletcher walked back in with an armload of vitamin packages.
“I brought you an assortment.” He dropped them in my lap and smiled sheepishly. “You can take a new kind every few days until you find one that you like. I know that the iron in some of them can be hard for some women to digest.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything for you.” He blushed, then put his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Remember, you can call me anytime if you have a question or aren’t feeling well.”
We held each other’s eye contact for a moment, and my stomach fluttered. “Okay,” I said softly.
“So are we done with all of the medical talk?” Marisol purred.
Fletcher blinked a few times, then turned his gaze to her face. “It appears that way.”
“Good.” She giggled deeply and lowered her eyelids. On me, that would have looked like I’d taken a sleeping pill and needed a nap. But on Marisol, it looked sexy and delectable. “Let’s get down to it.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “Okay.”
“When are you going to take me to dinner?” Her fingers walked up his chest. My throat tightened and I pretended to be transfixed by the back of a vitamin box.
“I, uh, dinner?” His eyes flicked to me, then back to Marisol again.
Marisol tossed her hair again, knocking a pastel blue box out of my hand. It hit the door, landing on the linoleum floor with a smack.
“Well.” Fletcher cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. He was really cute when he was uncomfortable.
“I love sushi. Or oysters.” She grinned wickedly.
I imagined all of the things I’d heard about oysters being good for the libido, and suppressed a shudder. Fletcher, on the other hand, stared down at her as if he were caught in a tractor beam.
“Sushi is good.” He offered Marisol a lopsided grin.
My stomach twisted.
“What time?” One of her perfectly arched brows rose.
Fletcher glanced at me, his cheeks turning a deep red. “Er, time?”
“What time are you going to pick me up?” Marisol moved even closer to him, and the front of her blouse brushed his doctor’s coat.
“Oh.” He laughed, and then coughed into his hand. “That. I’ll—”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I slid off of the table, tearing the paper with my back pocket. When the two of them turned to look at me, I waved as I scooped my purse off the floor. “Sorry to interrupt. I have to use the restroom. I’ll meet you in the lobby, Marisol.”
As soon as the exam room door shut behind me, tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I made a beeline for the restroom. Anger, hurt, embarrassment—you name it, it were all there. I sat on the closed toilet seat taking deep breaths. The thought of Marisol and Fletcher getting their freak on after an evening of salmon skin rolls and oyster shooters was more than I could bear. It made me want to vomit.
In fact….
I dropped down to my knees, opened the toilet, and barfed. This was going to be a long pregnancy.
Chapter Six
As my Volkswagen bug rolled up in front of the dilapidated brick bungalow, my breath caught in my throat. Of all of the houses my brother and his wife had renovated over the years—and believe me, there were plenty—this one was going to be my favorite.
Arched doorways and paned windows. The tiny courtyard in the front yard was lined with a rickety picket fence covered in peeling white paint. The shingles hung off the roof and swung in the breeze like playground equipment, and the glass in the front window was cracked. Some masonry work was desperately needed around the front door, too, but it was the most adorable house I’d ever seen. Ten thousand times better than my one bedroom apartment on the bottom floor of an old brownstone downtown.
“Are you gonna sit in that car all day, or are you gonna say hello to the pastor?” My mother’s frosted head popped up outside my open window, the tiny bells on her cat sweatshirt jingling.
I jumped a foot off of my seat. “Mom, you scared me.”
“Come on, now.” She opened the door for me. “Get out before your legs cramp up. My legs swelled up to the size of tree trunks when I was pregnant, and I had Charley horse cramps every day.”
My eyebrows rose high on my head. After finding out that I’d gotten myself knocked up, my mother stopped speaking to me for three weeks. It wasn’t until Candace caught my mot
her after church and chastised her for turning her back on her only daughter last week that she’d finally come around.
My mother finally called to ask me to meet her at Corbin and Andrea’s latest project for a picnic lunch and to chat. And by chat, I mean to listen to her explain why she’d decided to shun me for three weeks.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Ma.” I stood up and smoothed down the front of my shirt. Slamming my car door shut, I forced a smile. “I can’t be swelling up yet, can I?”
My mother shook her head and glanced down at my ankles, which were covered with the ends of my jeans. “You might. Your jeans look tight. Are you retaining water?”
“No.” I tugged at the waist of my jeans. “I’m barely over three months pregnant. My jeans are just starting to feel snug.”
She patted her own ample tummy. “I blew up like a balloon when I was pregnant with you. Your father, God rest his soul, said I looked like John Candy.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Pastor Irm’s bald head shone in the fall sunlight, and I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Why’s he here?”
Mom beamed at Pastor Irm, who was admiring the nearly dead rose bushes underneath the front window. When he caught her staring, he waved.
“Hello, Lexie,” he called.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” my mother hissed at me. “Wave at the pastor.”
Obeying, I suppressed a snicker. “I didn’t realize when you asked me to meet you here you would be on a date.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughed nervously and adjusted the picnic basket in her hand. “I’m not on a date. Pastor Irm is just here to see the house and to wish your brother well.”
“Sure.” I stepped onto the sidewalk and faced her. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
My mother’s eyes roamed down to my belly. “Well, Candace and your brothers seem to think I’ve been too hard on you.”
“They do, huh?” We walked slowly towards the house where the muted sound of hammering could be heard. “What do you think?”
She fingered her pastel pink collar. “I, well, I guess I was a little bit harsh.”
