Solomon’s mouth goes dry.
She’s too fucking gorgeous for words. All he can do is stare like a fool. Christ. This woman’s messing with his fucking heart rhythm. She has him on his goddamn knees like a dog with its tongue out. Has had him there since the moment he met her six months ago.
Tessie gives him a dismissive nod. Then her attention’s sideswiped, her eyes back on the laptop she’s heaving onto the room divider. Into the phone, she says, “But I have no control over DHL, Atlas, and you know that.” She exhales hard and rubs the nonexistent wrinkle between her brows. “No, I told you—don’t touch the design. Let a living room wall breathe.” An under-her-breath mutter. “Jesus.”
An explosion of words on the other end of the line—so loud Solomon can hear it from where he stands on the terrace—has her wincing. “I understand, Atlas, but”—she inhales, firmly—“this is my vacation,” she says. “I paid for it.” Her voice drops. Smaller now. “I saved for it.”
Solomon frowns, a surprising stab of anger in his chest. A sudden urge to fling her laptop out to sea.
She listens for a few more seconds, then hangs up without a word.
He grunts, nodding at the phone. “Who’s that?”
When she blinks, he mentally kicks himself. He’s inserted himself into her business. Well aware he’s been prowling in the background, brooding over who keeps bothering her. So much for not caring.
She chews on her answer a long second. Then her shoulders sag, the tips of her ears pink like she’s embarrassed. “My boss.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“He is.” With a toss of her golden hair, she turns toward him, her chocolate eyes clear again. “He’s like laxatives and Klonopin rolled into one. He is not my favorite.”
“Thought you were on vacation.”
She nods, her focus drifting to the ocean. “I thought so too.”
His fingers flex as she steps closer to him. Her perfume hits him like a drunk Friday night. The scent of coconut and exotic flowers calls to mind palm trees and little bikinis.
Goddamn.
Even with the dark circles under her eyes, she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Tessie’s all long legs and belly in that little white sundress. Suddenly, Solomon’s hit by an insane urge to cup the curve of her stomach, to kiss her until her knees give out.
Christ, what’s wrong with him? He’s here to talk babies. Not make more of them.
“You’re a rooster.”
“I’m a what?” Solomon shakes himself out of his daze to focus on the woman in front of him. She’s watching him with a scrutinizing frown.
She smiles. “A rooster. I usually do a morning Peloton ride. That’s what they call us. Roosters. Because we get up early.” At his silence, she opens her mouth again. “A Peloton. It’s a—”
“I know what a Peloton is, Tessie. I’m from Alaska, not the Middle Ages.”
“Mm-hmm.” She apprises him, fluttering those long lashes. “A joke, Solemn Man. I’m impressed.”
He grunts and turns away, but not before he’s caught off guard by the ghost of a smile flickering across his face.
“I ordered coffee,” he says, nodding at the pot perched on the coffee table. “Can you have some?”
Her face lights up. “I can. Exactly one boring twelve-ounce cup of coffee a day.”
“Black?” he asks, moving to intercept before she can.
“Yes, thanks.”
He passes her the full mug, their fingers brushing briefly.
Cup in hand, she heads back to her laptop. When she’s stationed in front of it once again, her fingers fly furiously over the keyboard. Her coffee sits beside her, forgotten. Her mouth is pursed in an adorable pout, her brow furrowed.
A strange irritation sweeps over him at the protective instincts poking him in the ribs. Why in the hell is she still working? Where’s breakfast?
She should be relaxing. The dark circles under her eyes bother the hell out of him.
Ash’s words flood his memory. She needs this, Solomon.
She needs it, and he’ll see that she gets it.
Jaw clenched, hands fisted at his thighs, he jerks his chin at Tessie. “You ever have coffee?”
Without tearing her gaze from the computer screen or her fingers from the keyboard, she tilts her head at her cup.
“That’s not having coffee.” He stomps to the terrace and pulls out two chairs, the sound a grating screech across the marble floor. He takes a seat. “This is having coffee.”
Finally, she looks at him, a disgruntled look on her pretty face. “I get up early to work.”
“I get up to see the sunrise.”
She wrinkles her nose at the empty chair like it’s a dare, then pulls her shoulders back, grabs her coffee and phone, and steps out onto the terrace. Gingerly, she lowers herself into the chair. She’s tense. Shoulders stiff. Leg bouncing a mile a minute. Itching to get back to her computer.
He sips from his mug. Waits for her to do the same, and then he says, “You’re working too much.”
Working too much for a pregnant woman, he wants to add, but he stops there, because he likes his balls where they are.
Her brows shoot up, and she gives an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t know me, Solomon.”
“I’d like to.” He smears a hand down his beard. “Last night. . .I don’t like how dinner ended. I know it’s a tough subject. I won’t let things get that tense again. I promise.”
Some of the fight goes out of her, her shoulders sagging. “Okay,” she says warily. “What do you want to know?” Around and around, her hand moves over her belly, like she’s channeling calm.
He thinks on it. Says the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you ever relax?”
Oh, Sol. No.
Tessie’s eyes flash. “Do you ever not wear flannel?”
“Jesus, fine.” He holds up his hands in placation. That probably wasn’t the best conversation starter. Silence falls between them. Then, “I wear other things,” he grumps, insulted. He’ll never tell her he’s baking in the sun. Breaking a fucking bead like it’s nobody’s business.
She snorts. “Like what? Overalls and trucker caps?”
Fuck. Her sassiness turns him on. Has him hardening. She’s not like Serena. Serena was. . .well serene. Steady. Tessie’s a girl on fire. He almost chuckles, imagining her in Chinook. Blowing through town in her high heels, blond hair whipping behind her. Feminine and fiery. A force he wants to reckon with.
If only she’d let him.
Ping.
Unable to help it, a growl tears out of him. “Your boss?”
She holds up her phone. Her eyes light up as she thumbs through the screen. “No.” She rests her hand on her belly and gives him a bright beam of a smile. “I’m twenty-nine weeks today.”
He glances at the swell of her stomach. “You are?”
Her lips curve. “Yeah. I have an app that tracks everything baby related.” She scans the screen again. Giggles. “Bear’s about the size of a butternut squash.”
He chuckles. “Shit. They tell you all that?” Curious, he leans in, elbows on the armrests of his chair.
Tessie offers him her phone. A pastel-colored tracker is pulled up, with a baby diaper bouncing across the screen. Heart thumping, he reads the small blurb: Baby now weighs three pounds. Baby can blink. Baby has lashes.
“How, uh, long do you go?” he asks, handing back her phone, hoping she takes pity on him. Sure, he has three sisters, but kids and babies are about as foreign to him as long-term relationships are to Howler.
“Forty weeks. Nine months,” she says.
He does the math in his head.
“I’m in the third trimester now. Almost there.”
“You go to the doctor?”
She smothers a smile. “All the time. It’s kind of what pregnant women do.” After a brief hesitation, Tessie tilts her head. Bites her lip. “Do you maybe want to see a photo of him?”
Christ. The way she’s chewing her lower lip, her sweet offer, has him catching a glimpse of the girl he met that night. Vulnerable. Kind. Open.
“Yeah,” he rasps around the knot in his throat. “I would.”