by Laurel Greer
Lachlan shrugged. He didn’t need advice. He just needed time. “Understanding Marisol isn’t the issue. The complicated part is convincing her I get why she protects herself, and showing her I deserve to be let in.”
“Supporting her at work helps. She’s mentioned that you’re cool with her juggling her time. That’s something the jackface she married didn’t get. He was all about himself. Dumped all his problems on her.”
“Good to know.” Especially good to be validated in not bringing up his financing troubles with her. He’d figure it out.
Swallow his pride, more likely.
“But don’t be freaked about getting together with a kid. Cadie and I managed, and Ben was almost a year old.”
“I’m not the one you have to convince.” He cleared his throat. “She’s coming around, though.”
By the time Marisol’s key snicked in the lock, Zach was long gone, having headed home to Cadie and Ben and all the love a guy ever needed in the world. Lach couldn’t help the bolt of jealousy stiffening his spine.
Nor the irritation when he checked his watch and saw she’d beat midnight by only a few minutes.
He flicked off the television and followed Fudge to the entryway. “Hey there, Cinderella. Pretty damned close to pumpkin time.”
Weary circles smudged the skin under her eyes. She dropped her purse on the ground, gave the dog a cursory pet and fell into Lach’s offered embrace. She smelled of flowers and something not quite her... Old books? He tightened his embrace, trying to hold her up to help support her back. “You close down the library or something tonight?”
“Guilty.”
He reined in the impulse to call her out on pushing herself too hard. A hundred and one parent-to-be blog articles mentioned pregnant women often got treated like they were incompetent, and he didn’t want her to think he believed she didn’t know what was best. “Let me know what I can do to help, sunshine.”
“I’m not going to put you to work doing research for me.”
“I would if you wanted me to.”
She sighed, and sagged a little.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A naked surprise?” Her yawn contradicted the heated curiosity in her words.
“Not yet. Something in the baby’s room.”
A twinge of pain crossed her face. “Just let me stretch out my hips first, okay? Driving is killing me. Glad I don’t have to go in tomorrow.”
“Want me to make you some tea? I boiled the kettle a bit ago.”
“Mmm, yeah. Ginger, please.”
He dragged the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, followed the caress with a nip and a kiss. “I like that flavor on you.”
She dug her fingers into his hair and kissed him back. “Coming home to you is fun.”
“That’s the idea.”
Leaving her to stretch in the living room, he ducked into the kitchen, reboiled the kettle and poured her a mug. The occasional glance of her easing into yoga poses on the floor through the cutaway in the kitchen wall warmed his belly. Making tea, everyday routines, being home with each other—this was what love was supposed to be. What his parents didn’t have, and what he’d fight for.
He brought the mug into the living room.
A soft snore sounded from the floor.
He huffed out a laugh. So much for tea and surprises. Fighting the frown pulling at his mouth, he put down the mug and knelt next to her on the navy throw rug. She lay on her side, lashes brushing her cheeks and hands fallen to the ground by her knee. She’d conked out midstretch.
Those blogs could go screw themselves—she was working too hard.
“Sunshine?”
She didn’t stir.
Fudge stared at him from her tight ball next to the couch, a look of pointer disdain over not being on her own bed after 9:00 p.m.
“Cuddle up, buttercup,” he said to the dog. “You’ve had worse.”
Way worse, really. They’d spent many a night together out in the bush or in the snow, not sleeping at all. Being cozy at Marisol’s was not a hardship.
Even so, he couldn’t completely erase the disappointment that he hadn’t been able to show her the dresser.
He lifted her and carried her to the bedroom. Tonight, he’d have to be happy spooning with her. Hopefully they’d wake up in the morning with enough time for a surprise—and for him to express his concern over her late nights—before he had to go in to work.
Chapter Eleven
Something was brushing her cheek, but Marisol’s eyes refused to open.
Soft breath caressed her ear, then another teasing touch.
Lachlan. His mouth, to be specific.
And she was surrounded by pillows and blankets and his delicious scent.
“I’m not on the floor,” she slurred, tongue refusing to wake up, too.
“I moved you last night.” His voice came from somewhere in front of her. The edge of the bed, no doubt.
She was too tired to open her eyes and confirm, though. She tucked the feather-filled duvet closer around her chin. “Thanks.”
He stroked her hair back from her forehead. Felt like she still had in last night’s ponytail. Whatever.
“I have to get to work. The contractor’s breaking ground today.” He sighed. “Check out the baby’s room when you get the chance. I left you something. Hope you like it.”
“Mmm. But... Snuggles.” Oh, God. She needed at least five more hours in this bed. She might have overdone it a little last night.
“I wish.” He ran a hand on her shoulders, over the covers. “You’ll sleep better with me gone, anyway.”
“So not true.”
He chuckled and kissed her again.
“Bye,” she mumbled. “Have fun with the contractor.”
She drifted back into sleep.
By the time she woke up again, not even her blackout blinds could keep out the summer sun. Cursing being pregnant in the hottest weather of the year, she dragged herself from the mattress and hurried to the bathroom.
Lachlan had said something about a surprise, and now that she no longer felt like she’d been hit by an exhaustion truck, she shuffled toward the baby’s room.
Furniture lined a wall, no longer just the crib. Wait...was that the dresser from the antiques store? But it hadn’t been white—Oh.
She covered her mouth with her hands and let out a squeak. When had Lachlan done this?
Probably on one of the nights I was working late.
Tears pricked her eyes. She skimmed a palm along the impeccable, perfectly distressed paint job, emotion swelling in her throat and at the back of her nose.
Good grief, hormones. It’s just a dresser.
But it wasn’t. It was him listening, paying attention, using his limited time to do something really sweet for her and the baby. And on a week where big things were happening at his expansion, too—construction starting today was no small thing.
And she’d been so focused on her own life, she’d barely acknowledged what was going on in his. Ugh. That was exactly how her ex had treated her when they’d been married. No way would she do that to her partner, romantic or otherwise. Curling up with the journal articles she’d printed off at school yesterday could wait a few hours. She had to go say thanks in person, and commemorate the first day of the next step in his career.
After showering and throwing on a lightweight pastel blue dress that nipped in just right under her breasts, she walked to the pie place and picked up enough lunch for everyone at the clinic. The bakery was just across the street, so she queued up with the noon lunch crowd.
A throat cleared next to her. “You’re looking ready to pop, dear.”
Internally rolling her eyes at the comment she got about eight times a day, she turned to Gertie Rafferty and smiled. “Another month to
go yet.”
“Well, enjoy the time. You won’t sleep a wink for months after the baby comes.”
“Mom!” called the woman behind the counter. “Don’t exaggerate!”
Gertie harrumphed, and they moved forward a few feet. “Well, you know what I mean.”
She did. Between school and the baby, she doubted she’d sleep for years, let alone months.
You will if you let Lach do his share.
Right. Needed to get better at that.
“Thanks for the advice, Mrs. Rafferty.” Marisol forced another smile. “What’s your recommendation for a cake?”
“Nancy, do we have Creamsicle cupcakes today?” she shouted toward the counter.
“Yes, there are a half-dozen left.”
“Go for those, then.” Mrs. Rafferty’s gaze dropped to Marisol’s hand, which she was desperately trying to use to support her aching back. “Stiff, dear?”
“Yep,” Marisol said, digging her fingers into a knot.
“Well, make sure to let Lachlan do the heavy lifting when you’re moving into the house this weekend.”
“I’m not moving into the house with him.”
“Whyever not? His grandmother taught him right—he’s a caretaker.” Mrs. Rafferty pressed her lips together. “A good man like that, if you don’t snap him up, someone else will.”
Jealously streaked up her spine. “Oh, no one else is going to snap him up, I’m just not... I mean, I need some more time.”
An age-spotted hand landed on Marisol’s belly. She flinched at the uninvited touch.
“Time’s a-wasting,” the older woman said.
“Mom, can you go switch the bread from the proofer to the oven for me?” The full-figured woman behind the counter sent Marisol an apologetic look.
With Mrs. Rafferty off on what Marisol assumed was busywork, she took a deep breath. A few minutes later, cupcakes in hand, she set off on foot for the clinic. She could handle walking a couple of kilometers. It would be good for her.
Halfway there, she was gritting her teeth, holding her hand under her belly with one hand and gripping the bag of food with the other. The baby had a way of shifting around that irritated her sciatic nerve. And her back was already throbbing. Her Braxton-Hicks were off the charts today—her stomach had been tight since she got out of bed.
Which means taking it easy.
Okay. She’d see if Lach could run her home after lunch, provided he’d driven instead of riding his bike. But she could make it six more blocks, damn it.
By the time she pushed the door to the clinic open, she was full-on wilting from the exertion and the midday sun. Fudge ambled to her side and nosed the bag of food.
“Not for you, sweetie.”
“How about for me?” Evan said, eyes fixed to his computer screen and hands flying on the keyboard.
“Maybe, other sweetie.”
He finished with a flourish and pinned his gaze on her. “You walked here?”
“I needed to work the kinks out.”
He arched a brow. “What, Lach isn’t taking care of that for you?”
“Ugh,” Maggie interjected, coming out of an exam room. “Place of business, Ev.”
“Yes’m,” Evan said, then winked at Marisol. “Lach’s on lunch in a few minutes. But that smells like Aussie pie, so if you want to leave any of it here...”
She plunked the bag on the counter and handed him a take-out container. “Two pepper-steak pies—one each for you and Maggie.”
“Good guess.” Maggie smiled. “Lach’s office is open—set up there if you want.”
“Thanks.” She shifted her feet, then winced as her back twinged. Ugh, why wasn’t her heart rate going back to normal now that she’d stopped walking? Her head spun a little, and she gripped the counter.
Maggie rushed in behind her and braced her. “You feeling okay?”
“Guess I need to eat.”
“Come with me.”
Within a minute, Marisol was sitting in Lachlan’s desk chair with a pie in front of her and a fork in her hand.
Maggie stood next to her, hands on her hips. She took one of Marisol’s wrists and checked her pulse. “Eat.”
For once, being told what to do didn’t chafe. Her hand shook as she brought a bite of pastry to her lips.
“More,” Maggie ordered. “Your heart rate is high.”
“I know. I’ll eat. Promise. You don’t have to hover.”
“Yeah, I do. Until Lach’s done with the contractor, anyway. Actually, never mind that. He should be here.”
This visit was supposed to be about him for once, though. “Don’t—”
But Maggie was already holding her phone up to her ear.
* * *
Lachlan surveyed the outside of the old barn as the construction workers prepped for knocking down non-weight-bearing interior walls and for fixing the crumbling foundation. Stacks of two-by-fours, rebar and a small backhoe took up the space where an old dog run had been. Instead of satisfaction, his veins popped with anxiety. All these people were going to need to be paid, and he was still short.
“Lach.” His contractor, Alejandra Brooks Flores, one of his friends from high school, loped over. She wiped a bead of sweat and a strand of curly hair from her tawny brown forehead. “This is going well. But about your bill—”
“Ran into a little glitch, Aleja.” Hell, between the grant failure, his rent hike with his new place and Stella being obstinate, it was a few glitches. “But it’ll be taken care of. I’ll make a call today, and the money’ll transfer by tomorrow morning.”
Aleja grinned. “Good man.”
Turning away, Lach pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and cursed as he entered his dad’s office number.
It rang twice before the receptionist answered. “Reid, Reid, and Travers, how may I direct your call?”
“Gregory Reid, please.”
“Oh, I’m afraid—”
“I’m his son. Please put me through.” His dad would be pissed about the interruption, but it couldn’t wait.
“Yes, Mr. Reid.”
A few seconds of elevator music, and a click sounded. “Lachlan, what’s this about? I’m in the middle of a meeting. Is this about the girl you knocked up?”
“For Christ’s sake, Dad—” easy, killer, you need him on your side “—I mean, insert ‘woman’ and ‘having a baby with’ into that sentence, and yes, that’s part of the reason I’m calling.”
Muffled words filled his ear, then a pause. “Okay. Bruce is going to give me five. Shoot.”
Every muscle in his body went tight, hating the words that he was going to have to force out. “I need a loan.”
“For what, to pay off the chick?”
“No,” he snapped. “She’s my partner, not a ‘chick.’ And I’m not paying her off. I’m going to build a life with her.”
His father made a derisive noise. “Is she going to be an asset to your business?”
“She’s in the same field, but she’s got her own career trajectory. I didn’t mean partner in that way.”
“Well aware, son. I just don’t see the point to a relationship if there aren’t benefits elsewhere.”
No, you wouldn’t. Lach’s stomach lurched. “The baby’s meant an increase in expenses, and—”
“You shouldn’t have to shoulder that burden if you didn’t have a choice in whether to keep the kid.”
The lurch turned to a full-on retch, and he swallowed acid. “I’m fully in support of Marisol’s choices. I’m damned happy about fatherhood.” He didn’t bother to ask if his dad cared about becoming a grandfather. He knew the answer. “But I needed to upsize from my apartment, and lost out on a grant that was going to float a good chunk of the renovation on the barn. And I’ve maximized what I can get from the bank already, given my
limited equity.”
“How much do you need?”
He named the number, shame cold and slimy on the back of his neck.
“It’ll be in your account by this afternoon.”
Selling his principles shouldn’t have been that easy. He rubbed his burning throat. “Great.”
The line clicked, and he stared dumbly at the screen.
His sister’s name and avatar popped up immediately, which—what the hell? Since when did she call him from inside the building?
He tapped the screen to answer. “Feeling lazy today?”
“Marisol needs you,” she snapped. “We’re in your office.”
The concern marking his sister’s words had his stress levels rebounding. He strode toward the back door. “What’s wrong?”
“My guess is blood sugar. But she just doesn’t look well.”
“You’re the doctor.”
“And my professional opinion, given I’m licensed to treat Fudge, not your girlfriend, is that you take her to see Caleb.”
Lach strode past the staff room and into his office, switching places with his sister at Marisol’s side. “Thanks, Mags.”
“Of course.” His sister left quietly.
He knelt, heart in his throat. His first aid training had him reaching to take Marisol’s pulse.
Her pink, sweaty face scrunched in apology. “Sorry,” she mumbled around a bite of food. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“What happened to taking it easy?”
“It was just a walk. Seriously.” She grimaced, and put a hand to her belly.
“Talk to me, Mari. Are you cramping?”
“No. It just feels like bad Braxton-Hicks.”
He fumbled in his SAR backpack for his blood-pressure cuff. Strapping it on her and jamming the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears, he studied her face. The lines by her mouth suggested something between discomfort and pain.
He read the number on the dial. Oh, Christ. Way too high. Swallowing, blanking his face, he leveled her with a look. “Have you had enough to eat? We need to go see Caleb.”
Her face fell. “But I brought cupcakes. And lunch.”
