"I'm just saying, Tessa, I really could use your help out here!" My mother’s voice is shrill and irritating.
I look down at my enormous, eight-months-pregnant belly and try to hold back a sigh. My mom is acting like I am capable of lifting tables and helping her into her wedding dress, when in reality? Tying my own shoes is currently impossible for me. I had attempted to escape from the morning's planning and building of the wedding stage by running into the bathroom, where my hormones had grabbed me by the brain and shook out tears of frustration.
I haul my body off of the toilet seat lid, hearing it groan and creak under the weight of my enormous frame. I flush the empty toilet bowl in case my mother is standing with her ear to the door, which I'd known her to do when I was a teenager and trying to hide from her. I run the sink and splash my face with cold water. I dab at my face with the soft, white hand towel that is draped through a silver ring on the wall, then take a step back to get a good look.
I look, well, pregnant. I’m not thrilled with my round, full face, nor with the stretch marks that are showing up in droves by the day around my midsection. I rest my hands on my stomach, which is covered in a crepe-y black dress with mini pleats. The effect of the pleated fabric makes me look even larger than I am. But this is the dress my mom has chosen for me. She thinks that pregnant bellies are unsightly and lewd and should be hidden at all costs. I run my hands up to my breasts, pulling the fabric tighter around them.
This is the only part of my expanding body I’m happy to see expand. My tits have gone from pert Ds to easily a triple D. I cup them with my hands and turn sideways in the mirror. As I stare at them and take deep breaths to relax myself, I realize that there's a small chocolate stain on my dress. I'd been sneaking Hershey's kisses to keep my blood sugar up since Paul and I had landed in California. I knew my mother wouldn't let me eat until after the ceremony. ""Dammit!" I say, too loudly.
As if on cue, my mother's voice comes through the door. "Tessa? Are you okay?"
I run more water and hastily grab the towel, running it under the tap and wringing out the excess. I dab at my dress. Thankfully, my impromptu snack has only stained a small spot the size of a silver dollar. I dab at it further. The chocolate comes up easily, leaving only a wet circle behind. My mother will notice, no doubt, but it will be dry before anyone else does. "I'm fine, Mother!" I call back through gritted teeth. "Can you just give me five more minutes?"
"Tessa, dear, I'm afraid that people will start to think that you've fallen in," she replies with a fake-airy tone. I know that despite how light-hearted she’s trying to sound, she’s actually pissed.
"Right, I'm sure the workers out there are just counting the minutes until I return," I say sarcastically. My soon-to-be-stepfather's house is the size of a small village. There are easily two hundred people milling around to prepare the house for the wedding and subsequent reception that will take place in the backyard. "Mother, I really can't be much help with anything when it comes down to it," I say through the door. I dig into the under-sink cabinet hoping to find a dry hand towel in there. Sure enough, a fluffy stack of perfectly folded and bleached white towels awaits me. I pull one out and hold it firmly over my dress, hoping that it soaks up a good bit of the water.
"Tessa, you are my guide and my guardian today," my mother says in her best dramatic voice. "You're my handmaiden, essentially. I need you to walk around with me and make sure my head doesn't roll off my body."
I roll my eyes at those words, taking a final dab at my dress and checking the results in the mirror. Better. My mom might not even notice. I drape the towel over the edge of the white marble sink. I know that one of the dozen housekeepers roaming this place will have it collected within minutes of my leaving this tiny room. I take a final breath to gird myself and twist the door lock open. A millisecond after it clicks, the handle twists and the door flies open. My mom has been waiting with her hand on the doorknob. "Mother," I say, smiling through my deep annoyance.
"Oh, Tessa, I just don't know what I would do without you," she says with no real feeling, taking an appraising look at my dress and then turning around to march down the hallway. I waddle after her, grabbing my lower back in an attempt to support myself, hardly believing my luck that she hasn't noticed the wet spot on my dress. "I hope that dries quickly," my mom says without turning around as if she is reading my mind.
I sigh, gazing at her back.
My mom is wearing a thin, silky, black dressing gown. Her hair is up in curlers. She’s insisted that I be dressed and ready to "receive guests" very early in the day despite the fact that there is no one here yet with an invitation for tonight. It’s only workers. I guess her social shame over unwed, pregnant bellies apparently extends to "the help" as she calls them.
I dodge three men in tuxedos carrying empty silver trays the size of a rooftop satellite dish. The house is buzzing with activity. When we make our way into the living room, a group of men is lifting the grey couches into the air. My mom runs over and starts yelling at them to not damage the hand-scraped hardwood floor.
One of the men, who looks not much older than eighteen, nearly drops his end of the sofa in surprise when she starts yelling. I stifle a yawn. We only flew in two hours ago. Paul is upstairs taking a nap. He's had a long week of work. My mother was only too glad to let him rest. "He just works so hard," she’d said to me pointedly.
I used to work hard, too, until I'd been forced into bed rest in the last weeks of my pregnancy and had to quit my job. My mother heard "bed rest" and her brain had translated it into "lazy." "Oh, in my day, women were often overcome with the 'vapors,' " she'd said sarcastically. I knew that she thought I was exaggerating, but I had no energy to stand up to her.
I take a seat on the only remaining ottoman in the living room, sighing with pleasure as I feel the weight coming off my back. My relief is short-lived, though, as my mother comes rushing over to me. "Up, up, up!" she says. "The hair and makeup people are here. Good. They can help you with yours as well." She raises an eyebrow at my face.
"I already did my hair and makeup," I reply, my hand going reflexively up to my head.
My mother isn't listening. At that moment, the doorbell rings. She looks panicked. "Get that, Tessa. I need to meet with the beauty people and they're already on their way upstairs."
I look around at the dozens of people moving through the hallways. "You want me to get the door?"
My mother waves away my concerns. "Stop being so difficult, Tessa, and go get the damn door," she snaps, rushing off to the grand staircase and leaving me behind.
I stare down the grand foyer toward the enormous wooden doors. In my current condition, they might as well be thirty miles in the distance. By the time I get there, the doorbell has been rung about eight times. Nobody has bothered to open it, probably fearing my mother's wrath if they do something that wasn't explicitly in their job description for the day. I put my hand on the lion's head doorknob and twist it, hefting my weight to pull the heavy door open.
Oh.
My.
God.
It's him.
It’s Man Beast.
I feel dizzy and have to lean against the doors. He's smiling at me through aviator sunglasses, his black polo shirt nearly bursting at the seams from his muscles. Both buttons are open. My eyes fall down his muscular, rippling arms. I remember those arms holding my legs back behind my head. I remember the black, thick ropes of ink cascading and twisting in intricate, impossible patterns down his skin. I remember his lips the way I’ve been dreaming about them for months now.
But now I don’t have to dream. Because they are there, in front of me, right now. He's holding a duffel bag large enough to fit my entire body in. It looks full, but if it's heavy, he's not feeling it.
My eyes go back up to his face. His eyes shine above exquisitely sculpted cheekbones. His nose is delicate compared to the rest of his body, and his lips - I gulp as I look at them. Like pink pillows around gleaming white teeth. H
e takes off his sunglasses, his blue eyes blazing as he looks at me.
"Well, hello again," he says simply, a little smile playing at his lips.
"I - what. I'm sorry. Why are you here?" My world feels like it's turning upside down and imploding in on itself.
Man Beast grins spectacularly. "I'm...the sommelier. Could you possibly let me in?"
I blink a few times, remembering the lush penthouse that he so casually seemed to be renting at the top of the swankiest hotel in one of the most expensive cities in the world. "A sommelier? You get paid enough to be staying in a penthouse?"
He smiles at me. "My stay there was a thank-you gift from a client." He eyes my body up and down. If he's disgusted by my pregnant belly he certainly doesn't show it. If anything, he looks amused by it. "You going to let me in or what?"
"The servant entrance is around the back," I reply, barely finding my words. My hand goes instinctively to my stomach and I swallow nervously.
Man Beast puts his hands in his pockets. "Is there any way you could let me in through the front, though? Just this once? It's kind of hot out here." I feel the balmy Southern California breeze hit my face and I furrow my brow in deep skepticism. It's not hot at all. Although I realize I've started to sweat, but it's unrelated to the temperature and more to the Adonis standing in front of me.
I raise my arms instinctively. My mom will not be happy if I get sweat stains on my dress. "The...lady of the house really doesn't like people to come in through the front door unless they are guests," I insist.
Man Beast leans forward conspiratorially, the barely-there smile breaking wide into a full grin. "But how will she know? Come on. Just this once."
I feel my back spasm again and I realize that I need to find a seat as quickly as possible. "Fine, just come on in this way. And hurry." I stand aside as he walks past me. His arm brushes against my stomach and I feel a warmth erupt between my legs from this relatively chaste contact. Keep it together, Tessa, I say to myself. But my brain is already flashing to a broken lamp and a glass room on top of the world, calloused hands finding their way down my body.
I lean my whole body against the front door in an attempt to shut it. Man Beast comes over to help me, putting his muscular arm against the wood and slamming it shut easily. I can smell his cologne. I take a deep breath. "Can I show you to where you need to be?" I ask him, trying to collect myself.
He smiles. "That would be great. I heard there was a wine cellar that I should acquaint myself with. Boss' orders."
I groan inwardly. I don't exactly know where the wine cellar is, but I know it will be downstairs. Walking down the curving steps to the basement is going to be hell on my body. But then I think of how cool and quiet it is down there. I'm still sweating from my proximity to Man Beast.
I can feel Man Beast's eyes on my body and his gaze is like rays of burning, summer sunshine. As if on cue, someone two rooms over drops something loud and clanging. It echoes through the open concept floor plan and slices through my ears. I am always overly sensitive to sounds when I’m sleep-deprived. With the pregnancy, I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. "You know...I don't know exactly where that is," I confess.
Man Beast grins. "I think that we can try to head downstairs and figure it out from there." He hefts the large duffel onto his back like it's filled with Styrofoam packing peanuts
I blush at the word "we." I know that I shouldn't go with him; I really need to sit down. But that is hard to remember at the urging happening between my thighs. "Let's go," I reply.
I lead the way toward the kitchen. I know there is a back staircase next to the pantry. Earlier my mom had asked me to fetch her a glass of water. Naturally, this was shortly after Paul and I had blown in from the airport. Such hospitality and courtesy from my mother, as always.
"So...this is a wedding, right?" Man Beast asks me.
"Yep," I reply shortly, weaving between the lines of prep cooks who have filled the kitchen. "A grand wedding, as you can see." My mind is still racing. I cannot believe he’s standing in my mother's new house. The odds on this must be astronomical. And after all these months of me wondering...I touch my stomach again. No. No. I'm not going there.
"You don't sound too thrilled," Man Beast says. "Not happy with the match between the bride and groom?"
I open the door next to the pantry and am thrilled to see a staircase that, while switchback, looks wide enough to accommodate my protruding stomach. "Honestly? I don't even know him. The groom,” I say sarcastically, “Only met him about three months ago. I've seen photos, but I just landed about two hours ago. He's apparently off on a mid-afternoon round of golf. Some sort of last-minute bachelor party for the embarrassingly rich, I guess."
This last bit of honesty slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. I feel a little bit like I’m betraying my mom by talking like that. I look back at Man Beast, who is easily padding down the staircase but not rushing me. I appreciate the courtesy. Paul has taken to being twenty steps ahead of me at all times, apparently forgetting that I am pregnant.
Man Beast just smirks. "Well, you know. Rich people. Can't live with them...could probably live perfectly well without them."
I laugh, feeling relieved that he doesn't seem scandalized by my comments. It's weird to think about a person for months and then suddenly have them standing most unexpectedly right behind you. Talking. Conversing. I remember everything about his body, but his voice has been more elusive even in my more vivid dreams. It’s huskier than I remember.
We finally make it to a long hallway deep underground. Low luminosity lights hang from the walls. It looks a bit like a dungeon - if dungeons came with interior decorators. Richly stained, rustic hardwood floor covers the ground, and bottle green subway tiles line the walls. It feels cozy and grand at the same time. I stare down each wing of the hallway. "I'm not really sure which way the cellar-" I start to say, but I am cut off by Man Beast leading the way.
"I have a good feeling it's this way," he says confidently, walking off down the hallway. It suddenly occurs to me that I've never met a sommelier with tattoos like that. Though they are usually wearing fancy suits, so how would I know? At least, I think they wear fancy suits. I wrack my brain to think of one time in my life I've been to a restaurant or party with a sommelier, and cannot manage to think of a single one. I guess my concept of sommeliers are strictly from movies.
I quicken my pace to follow him. Sure enough, a wood-paneled room sits behind glass-paned doors to the left. Man Beast holds the door open and motions his arm inside. "After you," he says, smiling.
My curiosity leads me into the room; inside it’s pleasantly cool and dim. Mr. Handsome taps his fingers across a backlit touchscreen and the room is suddenly awash in bright light. I have to blink my eyes to get used to the change in lighting. I gasp at the vastness. Several thousand glass bottles fill the space, each resting like dark jewels in cedar wine racks. "Are you sure you've never been here before?" I ask him, suspicious that he knew so quickly where the lights were.
Man Beast smiles and walks over to me. His firm body is inches away from mine. For a wild moment I think he's going to kiss me. He leans forward and reaches behind my head. I gasp in spite of myself. He smirks; he knows that I thought he was going to kiss me.
Great.
He laughs and then confidently grabs a bottle from the rack closest to us. "I think it would be a little inappropriate for me to kiss you again. And on the day of a wedding?" He looks at me in a mock-scandalous way. Then he points at the bottle. "1972 vintage merlot from up in Northern California. This bottle set the man of the house back about ten grand." He smiles at me. "I think today is as good a day as any for serving this, don't you?"
I nod, trying to collect my breath as best as I can, feeling foolish. The fire between my legs is now at three-alarm levels. I know that being down here with him is, at best, inappropriate. At worst...well. I can't make myself think about that.
Man Beast walks over to a long table at
tached to the far wall. On the scrubbed wood top sits a perfect row of miniature wine glasses. He reaches into a drawer below the countertop and pulls out a corkscrew, twisting the cork out of the bottle and expertly pouring out two small glasses of richly-colored merlot.
My mouth waters. It's been months since I've had alcohol. My doctor tells me that I’m safe with a glass of red wine a few times a week, but Paul disagrees. He’d been disgusted when I'd made spaghetti one night in my second trimester and poured both of us glasses. I let him have my glass, settling for lukewarm tap water. The memory of my irritation with Paul girds me. I feel emboldened.
Man Beast holds out a glass to me. "We've got to taste the wares. I'd hate to serve a bunch of hoity-toity rich assholes swill." Nerves flicker through my body. I take a few confident steps forward and reach my hand out, grabbing the glass and touching Man Beast's long, strong fingers accidentally. A frisson goes through my body. "To new beginnings and a happy wedding. Or at least an entertaining one," he announces. He clinks his glass against mine.
I hold the glass up to my lips and feel the rich liquid fill my mouth. I close my eyes. This is the best wine I've ever had in my life.
"It's great, right?" Man Beast asks me. I open my eyes to find him staring at me, his eyes twinkling.
"This...is incredible. Truly." I feel a laugh escape my mouth. The small burst of alcohol is making my back relax, the muscles unclenching. I realize that Man Beast is staring blatantly at my breasts. Then I see that his eyes flicker over to my bare left hand. I feel a moment of guilt as I think about Paul. We’re not even engaged, but he is the father of my child.
Man Beast puts his glass down on the countertop and takes two steps toward to me. He reaches his hand to my cheek and brushes his rough thumb over my skin. Goosebumps cascade down my body. "I think you had some mascara flakes there," he explains. I feel his warm, wine-scented breath fall over my face. He reaches out and takes my empty wine glass. His fingers hesitate on mine for a few seconds longer than is appropriate. Appropriate. There's that word again.
Forbidden: A Stepbrother Secret Baby Romance Page 3