Solomon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone.
Evelyn. No doubt calling to check in on the situation. Tipping his head back to the sky, he blows out a hard breath. He’s not in the mood but knows he better answer before his sister alerts his entire family.
“Hey, Evy.” Sandy beach replaces the sidewalk as Solomon drifts down to the shoreline.
“Sol?” comes Evelyn’s droll voice. Like she’s amused at the world. “Are you in Mexico?”
“I am.”
“Mmm. Good reception down there.”
“Just finished dinner with Tessie.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s cranky and ignores me.” He comes to a stop at the lip of the surf. “She’s perfect.”
“She’s pregnant.”
Not a defense. Just an observation. There’s no one more pragmatic than his oldest sister. Evelyn’s the only Wilder who worked her ass off to get out of their small town. Now a big shot family lawyer in Anchorage, Evelyn only returns home a few times a year, like she’s too big to come back to the town that made her.
“Did you ask about a DNA test?”
He drags a weary hand down his face. “It’s mine.”
“Is she fighting you?” Evelyn’s adopted her war voice, reminding Solomon of just how she got her nickname. Evil-yn. She’ll go to any lengths to win a case. “Because if she is—”
“Evelyn, it’s mine.”
“Sol. How many times have we been through this?” she asks, exasperated. “It’s important to establish paternity. If you don’t, you give up your rights. You make it easier for her to keep you out of your child’s life.”
Christ. He should have screened the call when he had the chance.
He clenches his teeth. “She won’t do that.”
“How do you know, Sol? You barely know her.”
He bristles. That’s the whole damn point of this vacation.
“I just do.”
A sigh. “If you want full custody—”
He shakes his head even though Evelyn can’t see him. “Stop right there. I don’t want full custody. Tessie and I are working on handling things.”
She scoffs. “That never works. You live in different states. What if she sues you for child support?”
With a growl, he presses the phone tight to his ear to hear over the crash of waves. He walks the length of the beach, swearing as water rushes over the tips of his boots, soaking the hems of his jeans.
“Whatever my son needs, I’ll provide it. I’m not worried about money.”
Though he’s told him to cut it out, Howler still pays him a salary. That, combined with what he makes selling his furniture, means Solomon’s got a healthy six figures stashed in the bank. More than enough for his son.
“I know you’re not. But I don’t want you to get taken advantage of. I had a client. . .”
Solomon groans inwardly and looks toward the ocean. Contemplates tossing his ass in.
“He paid child support for eighteen years. And then do you know what happened?”
A bullet lodges itself in his chest, and he shakes his head to clear away the nagging thought. “Let me guess. He wasn’t the father.”
“That’s right, Sol. He wasn’t the father.” His sister’s voice hitches. “After all you’ve been through, I want to protect you. I don’t want you to get hurt. You lost a wife. Losing a child. . .”
Jaw tightening, he looks out over the ocean. A hollow feeling settles over him.
He appreciates his sister’s fierce protection. Out of everyone, she understands his grief the best. Serena was Evelyn’s best friend. When she died, he and Evelyn got drunk on whiskey and wine for a week straight, talking gibberish and telling stories about her. Then he sold his house and built his cabin; Evelyn channeled that icy cool, and he hasn’t seen the sister he knows since.
“Right now, you don’t have many rights, but we’ll fight for all we can.” His sister’s voice rattles his temples like a jackhammer, bringing him back to the present.
“Evy,” he grits out, shaking his head like there’s water in his ears. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ll do some research into her past. Meanwhile, pay attention to everything while you’re there. Is she a drinker? In debt? Irresponsible? Smokes? Get me some dirt, Sol, and I’ll run with it.”
A ripple of annoyance runs through him at the thought of someone—hell, his own sister—digging into Tessie’s past without her permission. Evelyn thinking Tessie hasn’t given her all for their son is bullshit. The one thing he knows truer than day—Tessie loves that baby more than anything.
He refuses to let anyone—especially Evelyn—paint her as unfit or unloving.
“Evelyn, listen to me, and listen good. You will not dig,” he growls. “You stay out of the dirt and away from Tessie. Do you understand me?”
A long silence. Then, “I understand.” Evelyn’s voice is contrite but not weak. “I just want the best for you.”
Solomon stares off into the dark, in the direction of Tessie’s villa. “I do too.”
It’s the longest day ever.
And Tessie’s still up.
Working.
In bed, she lounges in a hotel robe, her laptop balanced precariously on her belly. Hair twisted up in a messy knot. Heels strewn on the floor.
She managed to put off Atlas all day by claiming bad reception, but now she has no choice. She needs to update Penny Pain’s kitchen remodel with new specs. Change the stained wood to a herringbone mosaic tile so sexy it gives her goose bumps. This way, the contractors can get in there tomorrow and smash the shit out of the space.
One more project, one more update. That’s what she keeps telling herself. She fought so damn hard for this promotion. She loves pushing the envelope with her designs, loves her clients. But Atlas and his toxic bullshit are making her miserable.
But she can’t quit. Not now. Looking for a new job, especially while pregnant, sends her resolve scurrying. Time is ticking down. She has so much to accomplish for herself, for Bear. She just can’t stop now.
She scowls at the Pavlovian ping of her email. Another email from Atlas. Marked URGENT.
This is my vacation. My only vacation in five fucking years because I’ve been your lapdog, she wants to scream.
Not a single message from Atlas contained an apology about making her work on vacation. It infuriates her that she’s not able to take this time off for herself. She should say no. Tell him to fuck off. But slowing down, jeopardizing her career, isn’t an option. As a pregnant woman in a cutthroat industry, she has to be bionic to succeed. The harder she works, the more she boosts her portfolio, earns new clients. Plus, this job is her life. It gives her purpose.
Nothing—sleep, sex, social life—has ever measured up to the way she feels in her career. Maybe because she won’t let it. Maybe because it’s all she’s ever let herself have. Maybe because her job saved her.
After her mom died, she went to college. She was worthless, attending classes during the day, waitressing at night, crying her eyes out in the cheap minivan she and Ash shared during her breaks. That was for two long years.
It was only when she graduated, got her first design job, and started staging homes that the stabbing pain of grief turned to a dull ache. Meeting with clients, staging furniture, pulling Pantones restored her mojo.
Her job was a gift, and even all these years later, she’s still holding on to that.
Clicking into a reply box, Tessie sighs, thinking of the romantic candlelit dinner she left on the beach. The five-star gourmet meal wasted. She’s managed to stave off her hunger with a pack of unimpressive hummus and pretzels from the minibar.
God, she needs this vacation.
“Don’t we?” she coos to Bear, rubbing the curve of her stomach. Inside, her belly’s peppered by soft kicks. Punches. He’s up late, the sugar from the mocktail giving him an unwelcome energy boost. “We need a break.”
Her only consolation is that she has six days left. What’s one day of work, when tomorrow, she’ll be on that beach, a pineapple man drink perched on her belly, a book in her hand?
Her phone vibrates on the nightstand. When she sees it’s a call she actually wants, she scoops it up.