“New hire.”
Solomon frowns. Yeah, Howler needs a chef, but hiring Miller Fulton, a kid who doesn’t know the difference between margarine and butter, is just asking for trouble. “When did this happen?”
“Don’t worry about Miller, man. When are you coming home?”
“A couple of days. We’re still talking about the baby.”
“You sure it’s yours?”
He bristles. At every word. The It. The implication that Tessie’s lying, leading him on.
Solomon grinds his molars. “Yeah, mine. A boy.”
Here and now, he puts to bed any doubt. And he’ll shut down anyone thinking otherwise.
“That’s great man.” But the comment is dubious. Teeming with doubt. “Claiming that offspring, Sol, it’s a noble thing to do.”
Solomon pinches the bridge of his nose. No doubt this would send his asshole business partner running. The only thing keeping him in check in life is the bar.
“You figure shit out with Goldilocks?”
He drags a hand down his face. “Not yet.”
Howler’s voice drops an octave. “You think she just wants money?”
“Don’t say that about her,” he barks.
“What?” The voice on the other end of the line is strained. “You crushing on your baby mama?”
Solomon snaps his mouth open, searching for a retort. Fuck. But what can he say? That Tessie’s more than a woman carrying his child? She’s—she’s Tessie. Impossible to crack but impossible to ignore. He couldn’t if he tried.
“That’s none of your goddamn business,” he growls.
“Whatever you say.” Howler sounds amused. “So figure it out. Then come home. Easy.”
A sinkhole opens in the pit of Solomon’s stomach.
Easy.
Fuck. Nothing about this is easy.
He and Tessie don’t have shit worked out between them. He should be ready to hop the next plane back to Chinook, and yet the thought of leaving his son, that baby, has him bringing a hand to his chest to rub at the tight pressure building.
And what about Tessie?
Stop.
He had his chance. With Serena. And he lost it. He lost her.
Hurting someone else. . . he can’t let that happen.
The only connection between Tessie and him is their son.
End of story.
Solomon has to figure this out and then leave. He has a home, family, friends, even if his own life has been on pause for the last seven years. Even if the thought of leaving Tessie has left him colder than the burger in front of him.
Shifting in his seat, he ends the call. His heartbeat is unsteady. So are his thoughts.
Time’s ticking. Time to talk about Bear. To figure out where they stand.
One more day.
And then he’ll get the hell out of Mexico. Before he does something stupid like fall for a beautiful blond in high heels.
One more hour. That’s what she told herself three hours ago.
Tessie groans and rubs her brow, her wistful gaze on the ocean beyond the terrace. The late afternoon sunshine streams in, as if beckoning her outside. But the beach will have to wait. For now, she has a full-on office set up in the suite. Her laptop lies on the couch. Her sketchpad on her lap. Cell phone and headset perched on the coffee table.
She’s almost finished with this unannounced project. Almost free. After this, she’ll put it all away and enjoy her vacation. She needs food. Except for a hastily scarfed granola bar, she and Bear haven’t had much of anything. She’s starving. She could hoover an entire plate of tacos.
Her mind moves to Solomon. To what he’s doing. Wishing she were with him instead of dealing with design disasters. She can’t help but grin at the thought of him standing in the middle of the boutique like a big giant who let her dress him. The memory of his body obscene. Impractical. Distracting.
Her laptop chimes. An incoming Zoom call from Atlas.
She sighs and pulls her laptop onto her thighs. “Hi, Atlas,” she says, accepting the call, ready to smile her way through another one of his inane power sessions. “I just sent off the sketch.”
He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I received it. Five minutes late.”
She lets the dig go. “Good. So, if that’s all—”
“Listen, Truelove. I just got a call from Ben Moreno.”
She wrinkles her nose as she thinks on it. “The restauranteur?”
“You know it. He saw your segment on Access Hollywood and wants you to design his newest hotel.”
Her jaw drops at his news, a sense of pride filling her up. “That’s—that’s great. I can start as soon as I’m back in LA.”
“That won’t work for him. He wants to get started yesterday.” Atlas snaps his fingers, signaling for another coffee. “I set up a Zoom call for four p.m. I want you to do a virtual walk-through with him of the space.”
“But. But that will take all day.”
“And?” His glare dares her to say no. “Are you confused, Truelove? This is crisis mode. Crisis mode doesn’t wait for vacation. You know that.”
“I do, Atlas. But this was approved. This has been on the schedule for months.” Aggravation pulses through her. This is her last trip without a child, before she becomes a mother. Plus, she and Solomon still have so much to work out.
“I need you, Truelove. I need my best designer on this. I need you to get this done. If you don’t. . .” One well-plucked brow arches knowingly.
Tessie clenches her fists. Visions of violence dance in her head. Visions of hitting Atlas in his smug little face. Strike that. Hiring Solomon to punch him in the face with his hammer of a fist. Still, even with Atlas acting like an asshole, she isn’t the type to complain about work. This isn’t just her profession, it’s her personality.
To let go. . .
She exhales, giving in. “Fine.”
“Good. Four p.m., Truelove. Don’t be late,” he snips.
For minutes after he disconnects, Tessie sits, hands balled on her knees, knowing she should work, but her body won’t move.
Frustration and anger have hot tears building in the backs of her eyes. This is bullshit. She can’t even take a seven-day break to focus on her baby and herself. She’s in Mexico, in a literal paradise, and yet, she’s practically a caged animal. Unable to escape from her job, the pressure, the cutthroat fight to make it to the top, when she really isn’t sure it’s what she even wants anymore.
What she does want is to be outside enjoying the beach. But instead, she’s working her ass off for the asshole of the century. A toxic monster who doesn’t appreciate her hard work. Who will never understand what it takes to be a single working mother. Who’s been calling her Terrible Tess for years, when in reality, he’s the terrible one.
She can almost see her future conjured up in a crystal ball. And it’s not good. It’s not happy.
What’s going to happen when Bear’s sick? When he’s in school and she needs time off for parent-teacher conferences or spring break? When he has a little league game and she’s late? The thought slices like a razor blade, has her cradling her stomach. Panic and despair ripple through her.
She’s so tired of working hard and never getting ahead. Of juggling. Her pregnancy. Her job. Her emotions. She’s sick of rushing, of never living in the moment, of doing this all alone. All she wants to do is enjoy her pregnancy and her baby and her vacation.
A fire curls deep inside her. In her soul, she wants to be the woman she was the night she met Solomon. Take risks. Rebel. See stars. And her job most definitely is not her star.
Not anymore.
The only one who matters is Bear.
Palms to her stomach, she looks down at Bear. Determination fills her. “Fuck that guy,” she tells her belly. “We’re getting dressed up and we’re going to go eat.”
It’s so right and so wrong at the same time: shutting her laptop.
She’s going out. She is.