Copyright 2019 © Author Delaney Foster
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, except in the event of brief quotations included in articles and reviews, without the prior consent of the author.
Cover design by: Poole Publishing Services LLC
Formatting by: Poole Publishing Services LLC
Proofreading by: Kim Holm and Patricia Lail
Edited by: Susie Poole, Poole Publishing Services LLC
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedication
In loving memory of my grandma. Thank you for being that grandma.
If things go right, I’ll see you in heaven one day. And we’ll pick berries and have cobbler.
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It was nine a.m. on a typical Sunday, and here I stood, panicked and wondering at what point my birth control had failed me. By the age of thirty-one years old, I should have known what I wanted to be when I grew up. Instead, I was a licensed massage therapist, turned medical receptionist, turned phlebotomist. And most recently, a certified elementary school teacher in Hickory Falls, Georgia. But now, I stood in front of at least a dozen little rectangular boxes on a white metal shelf, hoping the one thing I wouldn’t be was pregnant.
I had nothing against kids or the people who wanted the little crumb snatchers. Parenting just wasn’t for me. People typically learn one of two things from their childhood: how to be a parent or how not to be one. All my childhood showed me was that raising a child is like planting a garden. Feed it, nourish it, let it breathe, and it will blossom into something beautiful. Neglect it or smother it, and the whole thing ends up full of rotten plants. I felt rotten. And the last thing I ever wanted was to make someone else feel rotten. I didn’t know shit about gardens. No one or nothing could convince me that motherhood was anything other than terrifying.
I stared at white and purple boxes, and pink and white boxes, and blue and purple boxes until my heart felt like it was about to jump right out of my chest. My throat grabbed the air I breathed, taking it hostage and leaving me suffocated. I hadn’t felt panic like this since Jayce Sterling left a letter on the dashboard of my Honda Civic that changed my life—and not for the better. I still had that letter, tucked in a wooden box with a handful of dried white clover flowers and pictures of a time I wish I could forget.
My knees locked. I could just hear it. “Clean up on aisle six. Some lady passed out and pissed herself at the thought of actually purchasing one of these things.”
I closed my eyes and reached forward to grab the first box I touched. There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? I told myself, as if the hardest part was over. Right. I carried the box like a grenade as I carefully hurried across the white tile of the department store to the self-checkout. Anything to avoid the stare of the little old lady on register six who watched me buy two bottles of wine the day before. They weren’t for me, of course. I was a hot mess, but I wasn’t totally irresponsible.
I downed a bottle of water in the car to get the waters flowing. No need in dragging this out any longer than I had to, right? As soon as I got home, I popped a squat on the toilet and tried to rip open the package. Holy shitballs. Talk about childproof. (The irony wasn’t lost on me). This thing was sealed up tighter than my grandma’s—Okay, not going there. I waddled across the bathroom with my black lacy panties around my ankles and grabbed a pair of scissors from my makeup drawer. It was time to get the show on the road. That bottle of water wasn’t gonna hang around in my bladder much longer.
After all that work, I pulled the plastic stick from the package and looked around the room for hidden cameras. This had to be a joke. This is what they wanted me to pee on? It was like… an inch long. The chances of not splattering urine on my own hand were slim to none. Great. As if the experience wasn’t traumatic enough already.
I grabbed the end of the stick with two fingers, tried not to fall off the toilet, and let the living waters flow. Please don’t let the stick fall in the toilet. Pleeeeeease don’t let the stick fall in the toilet. I hoped I held it tight enough. I peeked to make sure I actually hit my target because I definitely did not want to do this again. Taking a pregnancy test was the Universe’s way of saying, “If you can’t get this right, there’s no way you should be responsible for growing a human.”
So, I flipped the Universe the bird because I never said I was ready for this.
Then I waited.
For what seemed like the longest two minutes of my life. It stared at me, the little purple and white stick on the bathroom counter. If it had a tongue, it would’ve stuck it out at me every time I walked from the bedroom to the bathroom to check it. Then I was back to the edge of the bed, where I tapped my feet nervously on the floor and glanced around the room and out the window. Then I paced back to the bathroom. I repeated this erratic process at least nine times in the two-minute eternity until the timer on my phone chimed and all bets were off.
I stood in the doorway of my master bath, staring at the countertop, my feet frozen to the floor. Everything else that surrounded me was a blur. The only thing that existed was me and that stick. A million thoughts raced through my head at once. Would I be a cute pregnant woman, or would I need to wrap myself in a tent to hide my cankles? If it was a boy, how would I know how to potty train him? If I breast-fed, would my boobs stay big and plump forever? Did women really poop all over themselves while giving birth? ‘Cause that could get ugly. Most of all, how was I going to tell my ex-husband that I was having his baby? So much for closure.
One line. One pink mother effing line. Not two. Just. One.
A wave of relief washed over my body, and my vision cleared again. I could finally breathe. My feet were no longer nailed to the floor, and the overbearing throbbing of my pulse in my ears came to a halt when I looked once more at the negative pregnancy test.
I fell to the ground and clutched my knees to my chest. Negative. I placed a hand on my abdomen. “Not today, ladies,” I whispered to my ovaries. Thank God, not today.
“Good morning, Mr. Sterling,” Big Al, the security guard, greeted me when I walked through the revolving doors of the tall, glass building.
Traffic on Highway 59 was murder, and the barista got my coffee order wrong. Caramel doesn’t belong in coffee. Ever. Not a great start for a Friday morning. But none of that is Al’s fault, so I raised my coffee cup and smiled in response.
“Morning
, Al. How’s your week been?”
“Beautiful, sir. Just beautiful,” he replied. His bright grin beamed across the lobby. That was his reply every Friday morning. I wondered if the man ever had a bad week. If he did, he never let it show.
I placed my cell phone, watch, and wallet into a clear, plastic tray and watched as it slid through the scanner on the conveyor belt. Then I passed through the metal detector and let Al run an electronic wand over my body. Sure, it was a pain in the ass, but at one of the top fine jewelry suppliers in the world, it was a necessary evil. No purses. No backpacks. And no jewelry other than a wedding ring and a watch. No one got in or out without passing through security. And no one was exempt from the process. Not even me.
I took the elevator to my corner office on the eleventh floor, smiling at a woman I didn’t recognize. I made it a point to try to memorize every face, even if I didn’t always remember every name. Occasionally, a new face would appear, a new employee, fresh and vibrant and eager to work. I took great pride in making the newbies feel at home. My signature might be on the bottom right corner of every paycheck, but I wasn’t any more important than any of the three-hundred and seventy-one people I employed at Sterling’s Silver.
I stepped off the elevator and, without thinking, took another sip of my coffee. I choked it back in order not to spit it out. Then I tossed the cup in the stainless-steel trash can in the hall. Could I still call myself a man if I’d just had liquid cotton candy for breakfast?
Sydney waved at me from behind her large mahogany desk. The black lacquered top was already littered with the day’s work. Despite the chaos scattered across her work area, she was the most efficient personal assistant I had ever worked with. Underneath thick locks of platinum blonde hair, her brain was a sponge for information. She never forgot a name, a date, or an appointment.
“Good morning, Mr. Sterling,” she almost sang as she handed me a manila folder.
I flipped it open and scanned the contents of the first page while I walked to my office. “Good morning, Sydney. I thought this was next week?” I asked, noting the change in the day’s schedule.
Sydney shrugged. “Mr. Frost sent an email first thing this morning. He wants to meet this afternoon instead.”
Garrett Frost: anal-retentive, micro-managing jewelry distributor who ran his company like a drill sergeant runs a boot camp. If we hadn’t been doing business with him since day one, I’d tell him to go choke on a dick.
“Of course he does,” I called out over my shoulder, then closed my office door before she could throw any more surprises my way.
First things first. I walked over to the stainless-steel coffee pot, inserted a pod, and pressed start. Coffee first. Then Garrett.
While the coffee brewed, I went to my desk and opened my laptop. Twenty-five new emails since I’d left my penthouse. The subject line of the one on top caught my eye. “Cracked the Case…” From Bennett Kane.
The smooth leather of my custom chair creaked as I settled against the cushioned seat. This should be good. Spread across the front of my eighteen-inch screen was a snapshot of a man in a hospital gown. From behind. It wasn’t pretty. It was the polar opposite of pretty. It was white. And hairy. And in vibrant, living color. Was he bending over? That was a whole lot of ass. I silently cursed my thirst for an HD computer screen. Above the photo Bennett had typed, “NSFW.”
Usually the “Not Safe for Work” warning belongs on the outside. You know, in case I’m actually at work.
“The warning goes on the outside of the email, asshole,” I said when Bennett answered his phone.
The line filled with laughter. “You should know by now not to open my emails at work.”
He was right. I should’ve known. The water in the coffee machine gurgled and spit, filling the air above the pot with steam as the coffee finished brewing.
“You didn’t open it in front of that hot blonde piece, did you?” Bennett asked.
That was my best friend. Successful financial advisor for a huge firm in Houston, but mentally still living in a frat house at U of H. He was the same obnoxious flirt he’d been since eighth grade. His sister recently gave him the harebrained idea to write a novel, so that kept him occupied when he wasn’t working his day job. Every time he came across these little gems during his research, he’d always send them my way. It kind of made me wonder what the hell kind of book he was writing.
“She’s my assistant, not a piece of ass. And no. I’m in my office,” I said.
“Good. I’m trying to make a good impression on that one.”
I’d had my fair share of dates, but I didn’t do commitments. That wasn’t a secret. The women I went out with knew exactly what to expect… and what not to. A nice dinner, a fancy party, a night at the ballet, and, if they were lucky, I brought them back to my place afterwards for a good, hard fuck. One night. That was all I could give. No one ever made it past that. Because no one was her. I wasn’t Prince Charming. But I wasn’t a pig, not like Bennett. One day he was going to meet a woman who would change all that. I hoped.
I stood and walked away from my computer and across the soft gray carpet. “Try not to scare this one off. She’s actually good at her job.”
Bennett laughed it off in response, as if his attention was a gift rather than a curse. “You all packed for this weekend?”
Packed? This weekend? As in… now? It was already Friday. And we didn’t have plans. I poured my coffee. The dark liquid swirled around the bottom of the oversized mug. No sugar. No cream. No caramel. The way coffee was supposed to be. I stopped for a moment to peer out of the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me.
When I would visit the city as a kid, the buildings lining the streets of downtown Houston seemed like giant beanstalks that reached the sky. I always wondered what it would be like to walk inside one of the monsters made of glass and steel. Now I owned one. They didn’t have buildings like that where I grew up. The only giant in Clover Creek was the secret I was forced to keep, the secret I wished I’d never known. The secret that kept me away from Claire.
“Packed?”
“Yes. That thing you do when you throw a bunch of clothes into a suitcase.”
I went back to my desk and scrolled through the rest of my emails. “Where am I going?” I asked, putting Bennett on speakerphone.
“Costa Rica. We talked about this last month. Deep sea fishing?” Bennett said, as though he’d repeated the fact a hundred times.
I stopped scanning numbers long enough to think. Nothing rang a bell. “I have plans with Monica.”
“Dude. You just met her a week ago. And it’s dinner. Her pussy will be just as wet when you get back. You have plans with us.”
Douche.
I was organized to a fault. I planned my life down to what tie I would wear next Thursday. I’d never forget a planned fishing trip to Costa Rica.
Poker night.
That was the only explanation. Give me a bottle of scotch and anything goes. Fuckers.
I took another sip of coffee, letting the hot liquid sit on my tongue for a second before swallowing. “When are we supposed to leave?”
“Saturday morning. Eight a.m.”
“Fine,” I agreed, knowing I didn’t really have much of a choice anyway. A trip to Costa Rica was better than having three grown men camp out in my living room drinking beer and ordering take-out all weekend. I swear I was the only grown-up in the whole group.
“How are we getting there?” As if I even needed to ask.
Awkward silence.
“Right,” I said, finally. “My plane.”
“See? I knew you’d remember,” Bennett chimed in, and I could almost see his camera-perfect smile through the phone.
“I’ll have Sydney get all the paperwork ready. We leave at eight a.m. You fuckers better be there at seven forty-five.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he said with a ridiculously phony accent that would make any pirate cringe.
“It’s a plane, not a
ship.” I shook my head then ended the call with a laugh.
How bad could it be? A weekend in Costa Rica sure beats a weekend crunching numbers and pretending I didn’t hate being alone.
The blaring ring of the final school bell of the year blasted through the hallways and classrooms. Children shouted and scrambled to load their backpacks with papers and workbooks. One more hour of car duty, then I was free to pass Go and collect my two-hundred dollars.
“Carson, don’t forget your pencil pouch,” I called out after the ten-year-old as he hurried to beat the line out the door.
I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh when he completely ignored my reminder. Nine weeks of romance novels and wine… and quiet. That was my mantra the entire walk down the hallway to the double doors on the side of the building. Exercise was not on my to-do list for today, but here I was speed walking like I was training for a marathon—the kind where a half-naked underwear model offers chocolate and wine at the finish line. I made it just in time to catch Carson and his father at the front of the line.
“You almost forgot this,” I said, handing the bag through the open car window.
Carson’s father smiled and nudged his son on the arm. “What do you say?”
The little boy looked up at me then buckled his seat belt and sighed. “Thank you.”
It was exaggerated and drawn out, but the effort was cute. “You’re welcome,” I replied with a grin of my own. “Have a great summer, you two.” I started to back away from the oversized pick-up truck when Carson’s father stopped me.
“I know this is probably a little awkward—” Colby started.
“Dad,” Carson interrupted, burying his face in his hands.
I laughed with Colby and waited for him to continue.
“Now that school’s over… and technically you aren’t Carson’s teacher—”
“Dad,” Carson shouted, a little louder that time before throwing his head back against the leather seat. Adorable. Both of them.
“Yes?” I knew full well where this was going. The man attended every open house, book fair, and parent-teacher conference all year long with no sign of a wife. The second my wedding ring had come off my finger, the corny jokes and flirty comments had begun.
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