“Brookey, I can’t believe anyone would call your guy ‘mister’ in any way. ‘Mister’ is for dudes in suits. Do the other two female guards call him ‘mister’ too?”
Josephine nods, and Melanie continues giggling delightedly.
Kendra and Chantelle are my other two bodyguards, purposely female because Remy would not have a male around me, but they’re always doing rounds outside my building or around the elevators. Remington left in an extremely restless state because of Scorpion and Nora—damn them.
Pete assured him, “They got her sister now. They don’t need Brooke to f**k you anymore—they’ll do it through Nora again.”
“No. No, I won’t let it!” I promised. But I have heard nothing, nothing, from Nora—nothing but this stupid note.
“The anger I feel is beyond words, Melanie, beyond description,” I tell her as I tuck the note into my pocket again.
“Chicken, I’d be f**king fuming. She does not. Deserve. A hero. Like Remy to save her. PERIOD! She wants Scorpion? Scorpion is what she deserves!”
“Mel, just thinking about what he did last year because of us makes me sick. I won’t let him hurt himself for me or for anything of mine. Anything. Not even for this baby!”
Melanie hugs me. “I know, just don’t work yourself up for the baby.”
“Mister Tate is a very lucky man,” Josephine blurts out from her chair, nodding.
“Oh, Josephine, there should be a new word for love between these two,” Melanie says, pushing her blond hair back and tapping a manicured nail to her lips as she narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “Josephine, we should give them a name like Bennifer and all those famous couples. Help me think of one now that you’re into all those gossip magazines. How about ‘Bremy’?”
“Why don’t I invent ‘Miley’? For you and Riley?” I shoot back.
Melanie grins and plops down closer to me. “I do like his friendly little visits. He came over every night, and we had a blast. But he’s got a good thing going, Brooke. He’s loyal to Remy in an incredible way. He’d never leave what he has for me, and I’d never leave my life for him.” She sighs and drops her head back to stare at the ceiling. “So I guess we’re friends.”
“With benefits.”
She smirks cheekily. “Yeah.” Then she grabs my hand. “But I want what you have. I’ve fallen in love a hundred times in my life! But never like you. So I wonder if I really fell or just tripped, you know?”
Smiling, I cup the tiny bulge in my stomach and grab her hand with the other. “Here. Feel this. This is the little bubble I told you about . . .” And even Josephine comes over.
“Is that the baby moving?” Josephine asks.
I nod and take her hand and put it next to Melanie’s. “I think he’s already starting to learn how to hook. But don’t tell Mister Tate yet.” I tease her with the Mr. part. “I want him to feel it when I know it’s the baby for sure.”
THE EIGHTEENTH DAY arrives tomorrow.
The eighteenth day arrives tomorrow.
I have not died. No tragedy occurred. Nora did not try to make contact and put me in an awful position. Remy did not go black. My penance has been lifted and I. Am. Going. HOME. To Remy. TOMORROW!
With my beautiful baby safe in my womb, exactly twelve weeks old today.
I feel a thousand and one tingles inside me as I pack my stuff. And there’s quite a lot of stuff to pack. So, yes, ultimately, I was given a platinum credit card and was feeling a little sad missing my man. And with the devil called Melanie perched on my shoulder as we goofed around on the Internet, I caved in and bought a lot of baby things and a couple of pregnancy things for myself too. It seemed that the more I bought, the more I was telling the energies around me—this baby is happening.
So I have tiny, tiny red Converse tennis shoes, some tiny baby outfits, just in case, and a onesie outfit that says MY DADDY PACKS A GOOD PUNCH. I also pack my What to Expect When You’re Expecting book. Which is not a book, as I told Melanie—it’s the damn pregnancy bible. So all that is tucked in the baby’s suitcase.
I’m getting all my exercise stuff back in a separate one, because I will finally be able to resume light running again and I swear right now, running equates in my mind to flying. I cannot wait! And along with my sports attire, I add some jeans with the ridiculous pregnancy waistband—it’s even more ridiculous how anxious I am to need to wear those instead of my normal jeans—and I’ve also got some loose pregnancy tank tops.
My phone rings as I continue packing and I answer to hear Pete’s voice. “He’s excited to come get you,” Pete tells me.
“Oh, Pete, I’m so ready,” I say as I glance around my room, happy I won’t be seeing it again for a while, then tuck my running shoes into the zippered shoe compartment on the side.
“But I mean really excited,” Pete says, clearing his throat meaningfully.
I hear a yell in the background, and a toe-curlingly familiar voice saying, “’Cause I’m the motherfucking king!!”
I stop packing and straighten, my eyes widening. “Is that him?”