“What part of me not saying the word in front of Blanket did you miss?” Frankie threw a few bills on the table. “And yes, that’s the plan. The universe just needs to catch up.” Frankie put her hands over Blanket’s ears and, even though his humming had grown to white noise, she lowered her voice. “We’ve been trying since last fall. And, don’t get me wrong, the trying is fun—Nate makes everything fun—but I want to get to the next part.”
Harper’s heart went out to the couple. It might have seemed like everyone was pregnant lately, but she’d met so many women since working at the Fashion Flower who’d struggled with getting pregnant on a timeline. It was frustrating and stressful and Harper could tell that Frankie didn’t need someone else telling her things like “It will come in its own time” or “Everything happens for a reason.” That would only dismiss her fears.
Whether she’d been trying for ten months or ten years, her fear was real.
Harper knew what it was like to want a family, and what it was like to be unable to create one. She didn’t know how to make Frankie’s problem disappear, but she did know something that might help.
Grabbing a copy of What to Expect Before You’re Expecting off the shelf, she handed it to Frankie. “A lot of my clients who wanted to speed things up swear by this book.”
Frankie flipped through the book and went straight to the index. “Is there a chapter on Pop-Tarts?”
“Pop-Tarts?”
“Yeah, when Blanket’s mom was pregnant, the vet told me to stop feeding her Pop-Tarts, something about the food coloring being enemy numero uno.” Frankie looked up at Harper. “I’ve been eating Pop-Tarts. Do you think that’s the problem?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor, but I’ve never heard anything about Pop-Tarts and conceiving.” This seemed to soothe the woman. “But I have heard that tossing out the ovulation calendar and getting away from all the pressures of life works wonders.”
“There has been a lot of pressure. The second our families found out we were trying, it was like open season on the baby questions.”
“Then give this a try,” Harper said. “Take a spontaneous trip up the coast. No pressure, no stress, no expectations, and no family. Just you and Nate letting nature work her magic.”
Frankie closed the book and rubbed Blanket’s head. “I’d need to find a sitter.”
“I’m allergic,” Harper said in case rumors of her sitting career had spread.
“Bummer. How much do I owe you for the book?”
Harper held up a hand and, whether it was because she felt for Frankie, or because she’d secretly kissed her brother then alluded to him being her boyfriend, she said, “On the house.”
Frankie rested her elbows on the counter, getting nose-to-nose with Harper. “You might want to check that whole deer-in-the-headlights thing you have going on. It makes you look guilty. Like you’re hiding something. That’s just some advice”—she winked and grabbed the bag—“on the house.”
It was Adam’s first day off this week. Normally, he’d stay in bed until noon, tangled up with a warm and sexy woman, then go for a run and grab a breakfast burrito for lunch.
Only normal had taken a hike right around the time he’d been drafted into planning Beat the Heat. Or maybe the problem had started with that dress. The slinky, body-hugging red one. Either way, Adam had woken up at the ass crack of dawn, frustrated and alone—and thinking about that dress. Which was almost as stupid as thinking about what was beneath that dress, because fantasizing about Little Miss Sunshine was a bad idea.
So he’d gone for a hard run until his legs were shaking and his mind was blank, and now he was in town. The breakfast burrito and a woman in his immediate future. Too bad the woman was wielding a knife and shooting him looks that were anything but warm.
The knife made sense. Emerson wasn’t only his brother’s fiancée, she was also founder, owner, and executive chef of the Pita Peddler Streatery, an award-winning gourmet food truck. The scowl shouldn’t have surprised him either, since she rarely smiled at anyone before noon—unless it was at Adam’s youngest brother, Dax.
“Sorry, that weekend doesn’t work for me,” Emerson said, not sorry at all.
Taking a breath, Adam glanced at Dax, who was standing at the prep station fashioning napkin rings out of twine and daisies in his deputy’s uniform and apron, using every bro-sign in the book to tell Adam to get out now, while he still could.
Knife or not, Adam wasn’t scared. Plus, bro-code was hard to decipher when the signer in question was dressed like Betty Crocker. “You catered the event last year, Em, and agreed you’d do it again this year.”
“Were you there?” she asked. “Did I personally tell you that I would?”
“No, but—”
“Then how do you know what was said?”
Adam looked down Main Street to avoid Emerson’s smug glare. The food truck was parked in the middle of downtown today, directly across from the community park and the annual Summer Blossom Showcase banner. Although it was barely eight, the sun was already burning up the asphalt, while Emerson’s chilly gaze was freezing his nuts right off.
“What’s your problem?” he asked.
“The Five-Alarm Casanova,” Emerson said, and the reference to his embarrassing-as-shit nickname caused the pressure behind his eyes to grow.
Three weeks.