He needed to know. She couldn’t keep that from him.
But she had nothing to go on. No name. No number. All she had was his shirt, which she had stolen when she woke up that morning and slunk out like the walk of shame that she was.
Even now, the memory of that night has warmth curling through her.
The stars. The bearded mountain man. Her philosophical ramblings about her deepest, darkest thoughts. She told him things she’s never even admitted to Ash. Admitted to herself. It was the moonlight. The alcohol. The handsome man doing things to her brain.
That night, that one perfect night in Tennessee, was like a drug. A nice memory she comes back to when she needs peace and calm.
She feels so far away from the Tessie she was that night.
Wild.
Carefree.
Happy.
Ash groans. “You should find him, Tessie. He needs to know.”
Nerves flare in her belly, and she crosses her arms. “I did my best. Besides, I’m doing him a favor. I doubt he’d be leaping at the chance to play daddy.” At the look Ash gives her, guilt floods her chest. “What am I supposed to do, post a notice on Craigslist?”
A shrug. “You could. You liked him.”
Suddenly, Tessie’s mouth’s as dry as a bone.
“I liked him for a night,” she says stiffly, refusing to give her cousin ammunition. Refusing to dwell on the V of his muscular back. The dark beard that tickled her as he kissed a line down the curve of her spine. The safe haven of his muscled arms and the way his voice was like a slow wade into molasses.
“Holy shit.” Ash gapes at her.
Damn it.
Tessie flushes, realizing she’s said the sentence aloud. She blames pregnancy brain. “Shut up.”
Ash cackles and spreads her hands. “Like the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.”
Tessie can’t help but join in with laughter. “God, you’re morbid.”
“And you’re in love.”
She scoffs. “I don’t do love. You know that.” She palms her bump, making smoothing circles on her belly, and dips her chin. “Only you,” she tells Bear. She turns to Ash, knocks shoulders. “And sometimes you.”
Despite her last name, Tessie doesn’t believe in true love. All she knows about love is disappointment. That it leaves. Her dog ran off in third grade. Her mother died of cancer, quick, painful. Her father left when she was still a baby. He knew she was his, had held her in his arms, and still he had walked away from her and her mother.
The only love Tessie’s keeping close is this sweet baby in her belly.
Her son.
She’d never admit it to Ash, but deep down, she can’t help but feel relieved that she never found the bearded mountain man.
People leave. And letting some random man get close to her child, only to have him walk out? Absolutely not.
It’s easier to go it alone. No one gets hurt.
Besides, she’s got a career to hold on to and a baby to raise. She’s not interested in true love. She likes that steel wall around her heart, thank you very much.
“Truelove!”
Atlas’s shriek has both women glancing over. He’s waving a T-Rex-like arm, motioning for her to move her ass over to the waiting cameras.
“Kill that guy,” Ash mutters, biting into a granola bar with violent intensity. Crumbs scatter across her lap, but oblivious to the mess, she shakes her head vigorously. “Atlas is working you to death.”
Straightening up, Tessie squares her shoulders.
“He is, but I’m only four months into this new position. I have to show him I have the chops.”
“You’re taking great care of that baby and your job, but what about you?” Ash asks, lifting her dark sunglasses to pin her with a knowing look. “You need to worry about Tessie. You need to be first.” She growls. “Atlas doesn’t even care about your wellbeing. You could go into labor, and he’d ask you to stage a room before you left for the hospital. Has he even looked your stomach in the face?”
Tessie needles her brow. “You know what? I can’t with you.” She inhales a stoic breath. “Don’t worry about Atlas. Worry about vacation. And packing. Because God knows you haven’t done it yet.”
Ash grumbles.
Tessie smirks.
In two days, she and Ash will be on their way to sunny Mexico. Her babymoon. One she planned for and paid for herself. She may not be married, may be an out-of-wedlock disgrace, but she still deserves one last hurrah with her best friend.
At twenty-eight weeks along, she finally has some energy. She’s horny as hell. Her smell is supersonic. All she wants is a massage. And maybe a slice of brie, even though according to baby.com, it will absolutely make her go into labor.
She needs this vacation. A beach. Sunshine. Sand between her toes. A mocktail in her hand. No Atlas. No Terrible Tess. No patterns or swatches. No interruptions. Just a champagne dream of a vacation with Ash.
Paradise.
“Truelove!” Atlas shouts.
Tessie winces, her skull thudding with the reverberation of his screech.
“We go live in one minute!”
Ash curls her lip in disgust. “God, he’s practically frothing at the mouth.”
Vacation, Tessie thinks, directing her mind away from murderous thoughts and onto happier things like pineapple man drinks and bronze tan lines and the reflection of the moonlight off the ocean.
And stars.
Always stars.
Ash loops an arm around Tessie’s waist, giving her a boost up. “Go before my empath heart cannot resist the urge to murder this guy.”
She wags a finger. “No murder. Mexico, remember?”
With a wobble, Tessie turns. She inhales a breath and sweeps her palms over the stomach of her silk mini dress. “Alright, you ready for this?” she asks her belly. Her heart squeezes when there’s a kick against her palm. She and Bear—they’re in it together.
Just the two of them.
He should dine and dash.
That’s Solomon’s first thought after taking a seat at the bar at Howler’s Roost. Instantly, he’s hounded by a waitress who doesn’t want his drink order but wants to say hello. She’s replaced by his dad’s best friend, Grant, who launches into a story about the bear he caught behind the bar two weeks ago. Then his sister Jo’s art teacher from twenty years ago. According to her, his aura is green, and he was a Viking in a past life.
When he’s finally alone, Solomon drops his hand, letting his old hound dog, Peggy Sue, lick his palm.
He should have gone straight home after he left his sister’s. Making the thirty-minute trek into town was a mistake. All he wanted was a drink, not a goddamn interrogation.
As he scratches Peggy’s ears, he takes a half-hearted sip of his Maker’s Mark and rolls his shoulders, letting the tension melt out of him.
But he gets what he gets. He did it to himself, staying holed up in his cabin for the last seven years. Annoying as it is, they mean well. The entire town of Chinook wants to make sure he’s okay, that he’s eating enough. They want to tell him they’re proud of him for finally coming down off the mountain.
He’s been coming to Howler’s Roost once a week for the last six months. Dipping a toe back into civilization. Life.
“My craft cocktails put this place on the map, and you order a bourbon straight?”
He grunts, sips his drink, as his best friend’s disapproving face floats into his line of vision.
“Hell, I’ll take it.” Howler whips a rag off his shoulder. “Only time we can get you off the mountain is for a drink.”
“That and when Melody has a flat tire.”
“Ah, the old little-sister-has-a-flat-tire trick.” Howler grabs a beer glass and scrutinizes a smudge, his lips turned down. “You know she’s doing it on purpose, right? To get you out of the house. To see you.”