“A babymoon. It’s where frazzled working mothers escape to a tropical island paradise to relax before their heathen spawn make their way earthside.”
With a frown, he clarifies, “Are we still talking about Tess?”
Eyes dancing in amusement, she bounces on the toes of her combat boots. “Yes. She leaves for Mexico tomorrow, and you should surprise her.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m supposed to go, but you can take my place.”
He cocks a brow. “Sounds like it’ll piss her off.”
“Tessie is already pissed off,” Ash says, then sighs. “Look, Solomon, there are three things you should know about her.”
“What’s that?”
“The first—she’s wound. Tight. She doesn’t get stressed. She snaps like a fucking Kit Kat.”
He frowns. That doesn’t track with the easygoing girl he met in the bar. “And the second?”
Her face softens and her hands drift to clasp against her heart. “She really needs this. Not just the vacation but. . .this.” She moves a hand between the two of them. “She doesn’t think she does, but she does.”
Though Ash hasn’t said the words, he hears them anyway. She needs you. A hard swell beneath his ribs has his chest tightening. A protective primal instinct short-circuiting his heart.
He clears his throat. “And the third?”
Ash’s eyes turn murderous. “Don’t break her preggo heart, you hear me?”
Solomon grunts and lifts his chin, trying to ignore the small fraction of softness needling him in the gut. “I’m only here to talk about the baby.”
“Then say yes.” Ash regards him with a pleading expression. “Please.”
He hesitates. Catching Tess off guard seems like a dirty move, but then, he’s here to do that exact thing, isn’t he? The only difference is he’d be ambushing her in a different country. Stuck together so they can hammer this shit out with their kid.
“Christ. Fine.” Solomon blows out a breath. “If you think it’ll work, I’ll go.”
Relief flashes across her face. “I’ll see if I can transfer my ticket to you.” Her fingers fly across her phone.
With one last glance at the drab stucco building, he wonders what in the hell he’s gotten himself into.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Her phone is blowing up her goddamn brain.
Tessie closes her eyes and breathes through the sound. Hand on her swollen stomach, she crosses her studio apartment, letting Bear’s reassuring kicks take her mind off her job.
Apparently, she’s not off the clock yet. Atlas is bound and determined to squeeze every last bit of work he can from her before she leaves the country.
Ignore it. She fights the urge to jump to attention, to be Atlas’s yes-sir girl.
For seven days, she will not work. She will, as they say in The Art of Raising a Baby, take a load off.
Mountain man’s flannel in hand, she buries her nose in the soft fabric, and inhales. Hard. She lets the scent drift down to Bear, like they both need a hit of calm.
Then, with a growl, Tessie sets the shirt back on the nightstand. No time to relax. She’s behind schedule as it is. Lips pursed, she picks through a pile of clothes on her bed, wondering if there’s a Hail Mary prayer she can send out into the universe that will make her bags magically pack themselves. Because she’s tired. Dead tired. Dog tired. Pregnancy is wreaking havoc on her REM sleep.
As if her prayer has been answered, the front door opens. Ash slips inside, fluttering dark-painted nails as a hello.
“Oh good, you’re here,” Tessie says, tossing her laptop and planner on top of her suitcase. “I’m bringing Bear’s doppler and my record player and earplugs for when you have that fourth margarita even after you tell me to cut you off. . .” She trails off, evaluating her cousin.
Ash looks like the cat that ate the canary.
She squints at her cousin and props a hand on her hip. “Where have you been?”
Ash sets a plastic sack on the counter and unpacks cartons of Chinese food, peeking over her shoulder. “Flirting with strange men outside your apartment.”
Tessie rubs her stomach at the scent of sweet and sour chicken, Bear’s impatient kicks echoing her own hunger.
“How goes packing?” Ash asks, licking oyster sauce from her finger.
Tessie sniffs. “Debilitating.”
“It’s the beach,” Ash says, swooping over to intercept a blood-red kimono. “Pack the skimpiest shit you own and prepare to be mauled.” Her face lights up as she snags a flimsy leopard print fabric as thin as a piece of floss from the pile. “How about this hot little number?”
“Are you kidding?” Tessie shudders and swipes the bikini from Ash. A hollow ache spreads through her stomach. “I’m pregnant. No one wants to see me in that.”
More like she has no one to see her.
Ash tilts her head and snatches the bikini back. “You’re not dead. Your body is banging. Pack it. You’re a sexy mama.”
“No. I’m not.” Warmth stinging her eyes, Tessie blinks fast to keep away the traitorous tears. These days, all it takes is one minor inconvenience or kind word to send her into a breakdown.
“You look beautiful.” Ash loops her arms high around her waist and pulls her in for a hug. “I mean it.”
Tessie fills her lungs and nods, forcing her face into some semblance of a believable smile. She wishes she had her best friend’s fierce confidence. Nothing’s ever wreaked havoc on her self-esteem like pregnancy. Being single and pregnant is way worse than being just single. It’s lonely as hell. Her body aches for a tender touch, for a foot massage, for sex. God, she craves sex. It’s like the minute she reached the third trimester, her body launched itself into hyperactive horn dog speed. She wants to fuck. She wants someone to want her. To tell her she’s sexy. She hasn’t been touched, been held, since that night at the Bear’s Ear bar.
And the happy couples shopping for baby gear or strolling in the park only compound the ache. Reminders that she doesn’t have that. A partner. Someone in the shit with her.
A person to share it with.
She doesn’t need a man to be happy, and she doesn’t need a man to have a family, but at night. . .
Nights are the worst. Nights are when the hard reality of her situation grand slams her in the fucking face. She’s alone. Single. Pregnant. Her baby’s coming in three months. An actual human being who will be fully dependent on her. Can she do this?
Will her job suffer? Can she afford daycare? What if she’s a shitty parent like her own deadbeat dad? Or worse, what if she gets sick and leaves Bear like her mother left her?
A part of her can’t wait to hold her son in her arms, but another part—that paranoid, panicky piece—wants him to stay inside, stay safe, so she can protect him always.
Nights are when she wishes she had someone to hold her. To tell her it’ll all be okay.
Blinking back tears, smothering her emotions, Tessie untangles from Ash and snatches back the bikini. Their tug of war finished. “Fine. I’ll take it. Let’s hope it still fits.”
Ping.
Thankful for the interruption, she lowers herself to the bed while supporting her belly and checks her phone. “Ugh, it’s Atlas. He wants a revision to the Jacobson mood board.”
Ash scowls. “You’re on vacation.”
Typing out a message, she reassures her boss that she’ll send it over tonight. “Not until tomorrow.”
“Tesssieee.” Ash crawls across the bed, crumpling silk dresses and wraps. “Promise me you won’t work this entire trip.”
She wants to promise. But she can’t. Slowing down isn’t an option. People are relying on her. Her baby. Her job. Her clients.
“I just got this new account, Ash. The promotion. I can’t drop the ball.”
“Drop the ball? You’re working eighteen-hour days. You always put your job first. You put Bear first. But what about you?”
Tessie laughs without humor. “What about me?”