Baby & Bump (The This & That Series)

by Moss, Brooke

  “Give me that,” I hissed, taking my wine glass back and polishing it off. “So why did you apologize to me? Why now? Why not four years ago when you did it?”

  “Because…” Nate’s eyes lowered, and he dug something out of his pocket. His movements were slow and fumbling, like a tranquilized animal. When his hand emerged, he held a black velvet box. “Because of this.”

  I sat up straight so quickly that my stomach sloshed. “Whoa. Nate. No. This is… this is… I’m not…”

  He smiled and blinked slowly. “It’s not for you, Lex.”

  My heart slowed down to a normal pace, and for a split second, I was disappointed. Not because I wanted to be married to Nate. Oh, hell to the no.

  But because I wanted to be married to someone.

  I wanted to be loved. Treasured. Valued. Craved. But instead, I was a thirty-year-old spinster who was just a few cats shy of becoming the creepy lady in the building.

  When Nate spoke again, his voice shuddered. “I want to ask Hilary to marry me.” He reached out and grabbed the wine bottle, draining it into the glass and taking another drink. “I can’t lose her.”

  I swallowed the thick lump in my throat, but it bobbed right back to the surface. “I… but I thought she kicked you out.”

  “She did.” He opened the box and looked down at the ring. It was at least three times the size mine had been, and ten times as beautiful. Lucky cow. “Hilary said she wanted a commitment from me, and I panicked. But the moment I left, I knew that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. I love her. I want her.”

  “Does she want kids?” I snapped. I couldn’t help myself.

  He shook his head. “No. Neither of us do. Not ever. That’s another reason why we’re such a good match. We want the same things.” He scooted closer to me, and put an arm around my shoulders. “But I’ve carried all of this guilt with me for years. Guilt over what I did to you. It just doesn’t feel right starting a marriage with Hilary without apologizing to you for what I did to ours.”

  “You needed to clear your conscience?” My voice came out meek.

  His chin rested on the top of my head. “Well, yeah. I’m sorry for what I did, Lexie. I guess I want your blessing.”

  I looked up at him incredulously. “My blessing?”

  Nate half laughed. “It’s just important to me.”

  I took back the glass, and polished off the merlot. Every angry and hurt feeling I’d stuffed deep down inside of me for years wriggled its way to the surface and kicked its way out, Chuck Norris style.

  Before Nate could speak again, I was crying. Tears, snot, eye makeup everywhere, you name it. I fell apart.

  “What’s wrong?” His alcohol soaked breath tickling my nose.

  I realized how close Nate was now, but didn’t move away. I don’t know why.

  “You knew I wanted a family,” I wept, grabbing the front of his shirt in my hands and squeezing it. The first few buttons opened, and I leaned into him. “You knew it, and you married me anyway. Just to save face with your family. Or better yet, to make sure your dad didn’t cut you out of your inheritance. You married me out of obligation.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, Lex.”

  I sniffled against his chest. “Do you know what it feels like to be rejected like that? To watch your dreams go down the toilet? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be looking down the barrel of the gun that is my thirties with no husband? No dating prospects? No baby prospects? No nothing?”

  When I looked at Nate through bleary eyes, I thought I saw him staring down the front of my shirt, but ignored it. I was too caught up in the moment. Too emotional. Too drunk. “Now you want my permission to run off and marry someone else? A woman who already wised up and dumped you?”

  He pouted. “As soon as Hilary sees the ring, she’ll—”

  “She’ll what?” I sobbed. “She’ll marry you, despite the fact that you’re a selfish prick? I can’t believe that you think you can make someone else happy, when your own wife wasn’t important enough to make happy? Are you kidding?”

  Nate cupped my cheeks and used his thumbs to brush away my tears. I heard him hiccup, but it was drowned out by the sound of the coffee machine gurgling. My head was swimming entirely too much to care.

  “You are important enough.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the room swayed. It felt so good to be touched. So much so, that it almost didn’t matter that it was Nate who was touching me. I closed my eyes and pretended it was someone—anyone—else.

  His face moved closer to mine. “You are, Lex.”

  “I hate you,” I told him in a feeble voice. All of my defenses were down. The department of reasonable thought inside my brain had officially shut down for the night, and I was now running on autopilot.

  Stupid, sloppy, drunk autopilot.

  “I hate you so much,” I whined. I wanted to forget. I wanted to feel something other than rejected. I brushed my lips across his skin, and Nate sucked in a sharp breath.

  I don’t know when the mood between us changed, but in an instant the oxygen in my living room was thick. It took more effort to breathe in and out.

  When the end of his nose brushed mine, a shudder rippled through my body. I can’t be sure if it was a shudder of disgust or desire, but at that moment I couldn’t have remembered my own phone number. All I knew was this felt better than being sad. A whole hell of a lot better.

  Nate’s lips met mine with a fervency I’d not felt in years. It was an eager, desperate kiss between former lovers, with newness and familiarity all rolled into one. Only, Nate and I weren’t becoming lovers again. We hadn’t wanted that with each other in years. And the truth of the matter was, we didn’t even like each other that much.

  But, in that cloudy moment, I liked the way his lips felt on mine. I liked the way it felt when he nudged me onto my back, and gently pinned my hands above my head. I liked the way it felt when he kissed me so deeply my eyes rolled to the back of my head. I liked the way it felt to be wanted for the first time in months.

  Okay, years.

  I arched my back, pressing my body against Nate, and he moaned low in the back of his throat. The couch was rocking like a boat underneath me, and I gasped against his mouth.

  “This is wrong.” I said breathlessly as Nate fumbled with my shirt. The bubbling sound of the coffee machine echoed inside of my head, and everywhere on my skin that Nate’s fingers grazed left trails of unsettling heat. “We shouldn’t…this isn’t okay…we—”

  “It’s okay, Lex.” When Nate’s mouth moved against my collarbone, I smelled a nauseating mix of alcohol and breath mints. “It’s just like old times.”

  Just like old times. I giggled to myself. That sounded absurd. Old times with Nate seemed like an act. A farce I’d not been let in on until after he’d moved on to bigger and better things.

  He pulled away from me, our lips separating with a loud slurp. “Do you?” He squeezed his eyes shut, then popped them back open a few times. “Want to stop?”

  I needed to stop. I should have stopped. A smart woman would have stopped.

  But did I?

  Nope. I sure didn’t.

  “Shut up,” I muttered, pressing my face to his again. Again, the couch swayed.

  I don’t know when we stood up, but when we did, my legs were wrapped around his waist. My back slammed against the wall next to my bedroom door a few seconds later, sending a framed photograph of my parents at their fifteenth wedding anniversary crashing to the floor, and that’s when I stopped using any sense of reason.

  It was right around the time all the buttons on Nate’s shirt flew in every direction. Not long after, my pants hung on the ceiling fan, and my brain shut off completely.

  Chapter Ten

  I didn’t see the dog coming until I was flat on my back with a Tupperware container of fresh Kimmelweck rolls bouncing off my head. That’s when I saw the giant mop of dirty white dreadloc
ks dancing as a sticky pink tongue lapped at my face.

  I heard a little girl giggling. “Libman! Daddy, help me.”

  A hand pulled at the dog’s collar, jerking him off of my chest. “Libman, heel!” Fletcher ordered. The dog that was roughly the size of a Shetland pony backed off and sat obediently next to his leg. “Aw, hell. Lexie, are you all right?”

  I took the hand he held out to me, and allowed him to pull me back up to my feet. A shockwave of excitement sparked from his fingers to mine, and then up my arm. His blue eyes widened when our skin connected, but by the time I was back on my feet, he’d righted his face back into its perfect smile.

  Oh, how I dug that smile.

  “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” He placed his fingertips on my pot belly. “Did Libman step on you at all? How hard did you land?”

  My pulse raced, so I moved away from Fletcher’s touch. “It’s all right. I’m fine. I was squatting, getting something out of the cooler, so I was practically already on the ground anyway.”

  I’d been digging through a pile of fresh fruits and vegetables, looking for the papayas Marisol had been unable to find earlier. We’d set up a tasting menu at the farmer’s market in an attempt to drum up business before fall and winter, which were our slow months.

  “Thank God.” He turned his focus down to the massive, ropey dog at his side. “Bad dog. Bad dog!”

  “Daddy, don’t yell at him. You’re hurting his feelings.”

  The sound of a small voice came from behind Fletcher’s back, and I blinked a few times to pull myself out of the handsome doctor’s trance. There stood a little girl with long, wavy dark hair. She had the telltale smile of a nine year old, with some small teeth, and other larger ones growing in like mismatched Chicklets. Her eyes—the same exact shade of ocean blue as her father—were wide and rimmed with an obscene amount of dark lashes.

  In other words, she was as gorgeous as her father.

  “He has to learn not to jump, Martha.” Fletcher patted the dog’s head and was rewarded with a grateful groan before Libman flopped to the ground and promptly fell asleep. “He knocked my friend onto her back.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” I stuck out my hand to the little girl. “Hi. How are you? Your dog is very special, you must love him very much.”

  Fletcher’s mouth tugging into a grin. “Martha, this is Lexie Baump. She’s one of my patients, and…” He paused and swallowed, letting his gaze linger on my face for just a moment too long. “My friend.”

  Martha put her hand in mine and we shook. “Nice to meet you.”

  When her hand slid from mine, I looked at her outfit. She’d obviously reached that all-important stage I remembered so well from my own awkward youth. Where wearing all of your jewelry and cute accessories at once is better than leaving something behind. Both of Martha’s wrists were lined with jingling bracelets, and she had two oversized flowers pinned in her hair. Her neck was decorated with three necklaces, and two of her toes bore rings that may—or may not—have been intended for feet.

  “Wow, Martha, I have to say, you’re really gorgeous,” I said. “All of that bling in this sunshine makes you sparkle like a pop star.” I almost said “fairy” but then remembered that when I was Martha’s age, looking famous was infinitely more important than anything else. I used to cry when people referenced my red hair to Pippi Longstocking.

  She beamed. “Thanks. My dad says I look like Madonna.” Her head craned as she looked up at her lovely father. “Who is Madonna, anyway?”

  Fletcher’s eyes closed at the same time my palm smacked into my forehead.

  “Oh, child,” he laughed. “I have failed you.”

  “You really have,” I agreed. “What kind of father are you?”

  His bright blue eyes popped open. “The kind who used to sing Pink Floyd to her in her bassinette.”

  Okay, so he hadn’t failed her completely.

  “Martha.” I guided her over to my table, then I opened the container of rolls. “Madonna is an eighties icon. She practically reinvented pop music. She’s like Lady Gaga. Times a thousand.”

  Martha’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?” I continued talking as I started slicing the rolls. “When I was a little girl, I used to wear tons of jewelry and lace gloves around just to be like Madonna. My mom thought I was nuts.”

  She handed me a roll to slice. “Were you?”

  I pretended to think for a moment. “Well, maybe. A little.”

  Martha giggled. “My dad says I’m nuts. He also says I should play baseball, but I don’t want to.”

  I made a face. “I’m not much of an athlete, either. He probably wants you to be a tomboy because he doesn’t want the boys chasing you around.”

  Her little cheeks went a pretty shade of pink. “He says I can’t date until I’m thirty.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Giving her a conspiratorial wink, I offered her one of the berries that I was going to put on the rolls I’d already slathered in herbed cream cheese. “Want a strawberry?”

  She took it and smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” I looked up at Fletcher, who was beaming at us. “What brings you guys to the market today, Fletcher?”

  His smile tensed. Just a bit. “Well, Marisol said you guys were setting up a booth.”

  “Oh, okay.” My heart coughed at the mention of Marisol. “She’ll, um, be right back. She went to grab a mango.”

  She was still pretty sore about the fact that I refused to share who the father of my baby was with her. In fact, as she’d stalked away from our booth with her keys fifteen minutes earlier, Marisol looked over her shoulder and called, “Your stomach is growing by the millisecond, and if I don’t find out who the father is soon, I’m going to stop speaking to you. Serving appetizers with me all winter is going to blow if I’m giving you the silent treatment.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll just wait.” Fletcher’s voice brought me back to the present. “Martha and I needed some produce, anyway.”

  I forced myself to grin up at Fletcher. “Well the market’s the right place for that. What are your favorite vegetables? How about you, Martha?”

  “Tomatoes. Broccoli. And corn.” She rolled her eyes towards her father. “He hates all of them, and whines when I cook them.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Doctor Haybee, you should be ashamed of yourself. Didn’t you tell me I needed more iron from leafy greens at my last appointment?”

  “I did. But I’m a hypocrite.”

  “You totally are.” I snickered, cutting into another roll. “I’ll bet you don’t take vitamins every day, or get a full eight hours of sleep, either.”

  “Wait a second. I do too take a vitamin.” He winked, and my stomach tightened. Well, the stomach muscles around my ever-growing offspring. “But I’m lucky if I get six or seven hours of sleep.”

  “You might try eating some edamame. It has tryptophan.” Apparently my flirt was set on high, because I tilted my head to the side and offered him a coy smile. “Or some spinach. That’s a vegetable guaranteed to get you into bed.” I bit my lip. Did I just say that?

  Fletcher stepped closer. “I just haven’t met a vegetable I like yet.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had my pasta primavera.” One of my eyebrows arched, and the corner of Fletcher’s mouth tugged upward. “It’s been known to convert even the staunchest of vegetable haters into vegetarians.”

  “Really?” His voice had lowered by at least an octave, and he leaned forward with his palms pressed against the table. “You sound pretty confident about that.”

  My stomach whirled. The closer he got to me, the more my skin started to sizzle and pop like bacon in a pan. “Oh, I am.”

  Fletcher paused, and for a moment, all of the noise of the farmer’s market melted away. Through the corner of my eye, I saw Martha’s head bobbing in both directions, her gaze going from her dad to me and back again. My insides melted into goo, then churned ins
ide of my belly.

  He stepped even closer. “I find your cocky side very compelling.” A smile was making his lips twitch and his eyes dance, and it was completely irresistible.

  He’s flirting with me. There’s no mistaking it this time.

  Fletcher’s grin widened. Our faces were only a foot apart. “Listen, Lexie, I—”

  “Hey, handsome. What are you doing here?” Marisol’s voice shattered the moment into about eighteen dozen pieces that scattered all over the grass. The melted goo in my stomach hardened into a large, guilty block.

  Fletcher tore his eyes from mine and stood upright. As soon as his attention was off of me, it felt chilly. Like when the sun slips behind a cloud.

  “Hey!” He pulled Marisol in for a quick hug. “There you are. We were looking for you.”

  Marisol leaned in with her cheek pointed at Fletcher’s face, but he released her and let his hands drop down at his sides without even noticing. My heart did a little victory dance, but I quashed my joy when I saw a flash of disappointment in Marisol’s eyes.

  Bad friend.

  I went back to my work. Through the corner of my eye, I watched as Fletcher gently nudged Martha towards my gorgeous Latin friend. “Marisol, I want you to meet my daughter.”

  For the briefest of moments, Marisol’s eyes widened and she appeared terrified. The nine year old in front of her was about as innocent and darling as tween girls came, yet Marisol’s face paled as if Medusa snakes coiled out of Martha’s skull.

  Come on, I silently chided Marisol. Widening my eyes at my friend, I tried to remind her that Fletcher was watching. Pull it together.

  It was really weird to want to help Marisol make a good impression with the man I wanted to desperately to make out with. Apparently, pregnant women had entirely too many hormones coursing through their veins, some of which actually affected their sense of reason. Case in point: lusting after your best friend’s boyfriend. Who is also your obstetrician.