She draws herself up and pulls her shoulders back, refusing to be ruffled. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you on TV.”
She cringes. Oh God. That damn interview.
“I’m here to talk to you,” he says, sounding as if he’s already irritated with his decision.
She shivers at the dark timbre of his voice. It’s what she imagines a forest would sound like if it could talk. Rugged. Low. Husky.
“Where’s my cousin? Where’s Ash?” Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, Tessie cranes her neck and pops up on her toes, peering around his linebacker frame. Then she gasps, an awful thought coming to her. “What did you do to her?”
He scowls. “I didn’t do a damn thing. She asked me to come.”
Tessie shakes her head like there’s water in her ears.
No. No. No. This can’t be happening.
Abashed, he runs a hand through his thick shock of black hair, then reaches for his back pocket. He holds out a crumpled piece of paper. “She, uh, gave you a note.”
A note? A fucking note?
Snatching it from him, she rips it open.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
You need this.
Have fun.
Have fun?
Tess stands there, frozen, rocked in her high heels. Fuming, she balls the note in her fist, her tightly wound emotions de-corkscrewing.
“I’m gonna kill her. Straight-up cousin-cide her. She’s the one who got me in this position in the first place. Because I listened to her dumb advice. Get lit, get loose, get laid, she said. Well, nowhere in that did it say, get knocked up.”
She’s very aware she’s muttering to herself in the middle of the lobby, vowing cold-blooded murder under the scrutiny of a complete stranger, but she’s too pissed to care.
The man spreads his hands, his expression uncomfortable. “I was trying to check in for you, but they, uh, need your ID.”
She bristles. This is her vacation. Hers. Nowhere in the fine print did it mention she’d have to share it with this mountain man who looks like he just hopped a moose to travel down to Mexico.
She shoots him a glare. “We’ll see about this.”
Whirling around, she spins on her heel and marches toward the reception desk. The hard thump of boots follows her.
“Excuse me,” she says, coming to a stop at the reception. “I need to check in, please.” She stiffens as the bear of a man settles beside her, his scent floating between them. He smells like fresh pine and icy air whipped by the wind.
One sniff, she thinks, willing her nostrils to close. Only one. For her baby.
The receptionist, a girl wearing funky geometric glasses, beams. “Of course. Last name?”
“Truelove. Tess.”
As the receptionist checks on the room, Tessie stabs out a threat of a text to her cousin.
Tessie: You. Are. Dead.
Ash: The real question is—will you attend my funeral?
Tessie: Hard pass. Because I will be in prison for your murder.
“Ah, yes. You’re in the Villa Bonita suite with an ocean view. However, I am sorry, miss,” the girl says, causing Tessie’s gaze to snap up. “Your room is not yet ready.” She inclines her head toward the large windows showcasing a balcony overlooking the ocean. “Perhaps you and your husband can wait in our Cielo bar.”
Tessie sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Great. Already it begins.” Another sigh. “He’s not my husband.” She dares a glance at the man whose face is set and stiff. Very unsmiling. “What do I call you anyway?”
A weary light flashes in his eyes. “Solomon. Wilder.”
Solomon Wilder. Solomon. She rolls his name around in her head like a marble. He looks like a Solomon. More like a Solemn Man. With a sigh, she turns her attention back to the receptionist. “Is there anything you can do?”
“I’m so sorry. But the wait won’t be long.” An apologetic smile. Another tap at the keyboard. “I have your number on file and will text you as soon as your room is ready. If you like, you can leave your bags here and we’ll bring them up.”
“Fine.”
After dropping her bags and record player with the valet, Tessie turns on her heel and stalks past Solomon, through the lobby, and out onto the balcony. She chooses a seat at a table overlooking the beach. The ocean is a cool blue roar against the sizzling backdrop of the bright orange sun. For a second, she’s at peace. Calm.
Then a nearby seat scrapes against the concrete floor, the sound needling her brain.
Solomon sits across from her. Bearded. Serious faced. She fumes. She can’t even enjoy the moment because she’s got some burly bearded mountain man blocking her ocean view.
Narrowing her eyes, she leans across the table. “You’re sweating.”
He grunts. His discomfort is obvious. “I know.”
“Did you maybe pack anything other than flannel?”
“I wasn’t exactly planning for a tropical beach vacation,” he grumps.
Good. She settles back in her chair with a smug smirk. Maybe he’ll tuck tail when he realizes the sun’s the boss down here.
His gruff rumble of a voice rolls out. “Tessie, listen.” Tessie. Dammit, her name in his mouth has her going soft. Like a hot knife running through butter. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. Or catch you off guard.”
Tessie smooths her blond hair, trying to look saner than she feels. “Well, you did both.”
His enormous fingers dig into the edge of the table, a clear effort to stay calm. “I saw you on TV. Saw. . .” He waves a hand up and down her torso. “I came to LA to talk to you and ran into Ash. And then—”
“Hola. Can I get you anything from the bar, se?or?”
A server waits, ready for their order.
“Beer,” Solomon says, and their gazes meet.
“Liquid courage?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Do you maybe have one of those mocktail pineapple man drinks?” Tessie asks the server hopefully, aware of Solomon’s dark eyes checking her over.
“Apologies, se?orita,” he says. “Not at this bar. The tiki bar on the beach has them.”
“Club soda, then.”
God, how she wishes for a shot of tequila, a glass of rosé, anything to take the sting out of this conversation. Beneath the table, she holds her stomach, feeling the thump of little feet peppering away impatiently.
“So. . . you’re here,” she says, examining her neon-pink beach nails. “What do you want?”
“You’re pregnant.” Solomon’s attention drifts to her belly. His throat works the words out. “Is it. . . mine?”
It’d be so easy to lie. To tell him no, to get him out of her hair. But she’s not a monster.
She lifts her chin. Meets his eyes dead-on and says, “It is.”
He grips the armrests of his chair.
His world-off-its-axis reaction is obvious. She stays quiet for a beat, letting it sink in.
Solomon leans back in his chair, jaw slack and body rigid. Exhaling, he runs a hand down his dark beard. “Shit.”
He sits like that for one, maybe two minutes, until the drinks are delivered, and then he swallows half his beer in one gulp. As he does, Tessie takes a second to evaluate him. She’s seeing him for the first time in six months. Up close. Too close.
Too dangerous.
Too handsome.
Her mouth waters. Her heart flutters. There’s a distinct twinge down below that comes from a long drought. From want.
His eyes are still that same deep blue she remembers. Pantone color 19-4045 TCX Lapis Blue. A hue so dark it could have come from the depths of the sea. Under the sleeves of his thick flannel, his brick-like biceps bulge. His black beard is close-cropped. His shoulders have their own zip code. Massive. Massive. Everything about him is massive. She could surf on his collarbone. His hands—broad, callused—could engulf her.
Oh God. She holds her belly, wincing at the thought. The baby will be explosive. It’ll rip her in half.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” The curse has her focusing on his face. Twisted into a grumpy frown. “How’d this happen? We used a condom,” he insists, voice hoarse, wrenching a hand through his thick black hair.