She perks up. “Okay.” He waits while she swipes at her phone, and then she’s scooting her chair closer to his. “Here,” she says, putting her phone in his large hands once more.
Solomon examines the gray and white Rorschach-like blurs, frowning to figure out what he’s looking at.
But then he sees.
He sees his son.
His.
It’s real and it’s happening.
The thought has his chest tightening. He wants this. With everything he has. Wants to be a father, to take his son back to Chinook, teach him how to fish, how to cook, how to be a good man—hell, a good person—every damn thing his own parents taught him.
Tessie’s slender finger traces the screen. “That’s his head, and this is his spine, see? And that’s his. . .” Her eyes flick to his, a faint smile on her face. “You know.” She laughs. “Penis.”
Solomon’s heart thumps in his ears as he drinks in the photos. As he swipes through, he’s hit by a flare of worry. “And Bear’s good. He’s healthy?”
“He is.” She taps the screen, angling in close to him. If he turned his face, her lips would be inches from his. Stop. God damnit.
“He’s perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes.”
Sunlight falls over her face, illuminating everything beautiful about her. Honest happiness in her expression he only sees when she talks about their son. Their gazes catch and hold. She cradles her belly, her voice turning soft. “Now all he has to do is just stay in there until December.”
“And what about you?” he asks gruffly, the thought tearing at him.
She blinks, caught off guard, then her face resets. “I’m fine now,” she insists, drumming a finger against the edge of her coffee cup.
He swallows. “Now?”
A casual lift of her hand. “I was sick so much the first few months. Like barf-in-a-plastic-bag-while-I’m-driving sick.”
“Christ,” he says, frowning.
“But I got through it. Now it’s easy sailing.”
Solomon stares.
In awe of his child. In awe of this woman.
These last six months, she’s been alone, doing all this herself. Protecting his son, putting her body through hell, going to doctor’s appointments, balancing it all with a demanding career. Regret needles him. He’s missed so much. Missed it by no fault of his own, but damn. It still stings.
“You have family in Alaska?” Tessie asks, straightening in her chair.
“In Chinook,” he says. “Parents. Three sisters.”
“Really?” Then she covers her mouth. Her cheeks turn beet-red. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I just thought. . .you lived on a mountain. I pictured you. . .never leaving. Like some sort of Yeti hermit.”
He presses his lips together to hide a smile. She’s not wrong. “For a long time, I didn’t.”
“Because of your wife?” she ventures carefully.
“Serena.”
“Serena.” She repeats the name like she wants to get it right. To memorize it.
His gut clenches as the thoughtfulness of the gesture sucker punches him.
A contemplative expression on her face, Tessie angles her head, studying him. “How long were you married?”
“Six years.”
“Oh.”
He wants to say more, to tell her about Serena, but the words stick in his throat. Admitting what happened. . .he’s not there yet. He’s not proud of it.
“So. Your parents,” she prompts, clearly reading into his silence and deciding to change the subject. “What do they think about this mess?”
He looks at her sharply. “It’s not a mess, Tessie.” Wanting her to know where he stands, he locks eyes with her. “Not to them, and especially not to me.”
She gives him a small, grateful smile, her hands automatically moving to her belly. “I really appreciate that, Solomon,” she says softly.
A silence that’s easy falls around them. He sips his coffee, shifting in his chair as hot rays of sunlight filter over the terrace. Yet he says nothing, makes no move to remove his flannel. He doesn’t want to interrupt the moment by letting on that he’s hot as hell.
They’re finally getting somewhere, and he wants to pull her in closer.
So they sit, watching the ocean. Watching the sun rise higher and higher in the sky, until they see the white pops of umbrellas on the sand. The faint strains of mariachi music signaling that the beach has woken up.
“You were right.” Her soft lilt of a voice floats between them. She offers him a dazzling smile. “This is nice. The sunrise.”
It is. While he’s done it every morning in Chinook, it’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed it. He likes sitting here with her and their son.
“Good,” he says, happy she’s happy. “I’m glad.”
A hand on his arm.
He turns to her. Tries to ignore the jerk of his heart.
Tessie’s studying him with eagle-eyed intensity. “You’re hot?”
“What?”
She swirls a finger around his face, his damp brow. “Are you hot?”
A drop of sweat slides down his temple. He clears his throat. “Not too bad.”
Amusement settles across her face. “We should get you some clothes.” At his blank look, she arches a brow. “You know, go shopping.”
He twitches at the word. “No.”
She laughs. “You’re at the beach, Solomon. You shouldn’t suffer. You should be having fun. Surfing a wave.”
An unbidden smile curls his lips. “I don’t surf.”
“I am well aware of that.”
With a huff, she plants both hands on the armrests of her chair, ready to shove herself up, but he’s there, taking her hand in his so he doesn’t have to watch her struggle.
She stands, and he stiffens as her hand wraps around the swell of his bicep. His pulse races at her touch. He looms over her like a huge man-beast. She presses up on the tips of her toes to lean into him, her heated brown eyes on his face. The swell of her belly, the smallness, the nearness of her, sends a bolt of desire licking through his bloodstream.
“Shopping,” she says again. “Nothing too painful, I promise.”
Say no. Like all the times his sisters tried to dress him up when he was a kid. No when Serena brought home that falcon with the broken wing, because if it died, she’d cry, and Solomon never wanted to see his wife cry. No when Howler thought it was a good idea to buy a mechanical bull for the bar; it wasn’t a rodeo, goddamn it. Put his boot down and say no.
Goddamn it. No.
But as he gets lost in her big, brown, pleading eyes, he’s a goner. There’s no fight left in him. He’s over the edge. Done.
Tessie lets her hand linger on his arm before dropping it, and then she smiles. “C’mon, Solemn Man. Clothes.”
Tessie leads, and Solomon follows.
Next to the hotel gift shop is Seaside Escape, the upscale beach-inspired fashion store. As she winds her way through the aisles, a thrill of excitement shoots through her. It’s been ages since she’s been shopping. Scratch that. Since she had time to shop. All of her pregnancy clothes were ordered online between bites of food scarfed as she sourced furniture for her clients.
Glancing over, Tessie bites her lip at the sight of Solomon bumbling his way through the racks of clothing. He looks lost, confused. Like he’d rather be back in Alaska tossing polar bears around. Picking up hangers with his big hands. Scowling at the cheery yet cheesy slogans like Beach, Please and Life is Better in Flip-Flops.
“Don’t worry,” she says, sending him an assuring look over her shoulder. “I’d never make you wear slogans.”
Solomon edges away from a macrame kimono like it’s on fire. “Never been to a place like this,” he grits out.
Instead of making a teasing remark, she moves close. Looks up at him. “Do you want help?”
Out on that balcony, she saw it. He looked out of place and uncomfortable in his red flannel. It hit her then, that she wasn’t the only one feeling awkward with this whole arrangement. She wanted to help him.
Oh shit. Does this mean she cares?
No. It’s a nice gesture.
Clothes. He needs them, and she can help. She is fashionable, and he clearly is not.
He gives an almost imperceptible nod. “Whatever you think.”
“A wardrobe for the season.” She tugs at his lapel, the fabric velvety between her fingers. “Because God knows you only have one.”