Sure Thing

by Jana Aston

  “You left! You. Left. You made me fall for you and then you just left and broke my heart.” Her voice catches when she says that and I feel like a right prick. “I had all these grandiose ideas of how cleverly I’d tell you off if I ever saw you again.”

  “I’m an idiot. I thought…” I trail off, unsure if I’m about to dig myself deeper.

  “You thought what?” Her scowl game is strong. A lesser man would likely be intimidated. As it is, I’m apprehensive.

  “I thought you’d lied.”

  “I did lie. A lot.”

  “About George.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh.” Then she’s shaking her head. “I’d never lie about that. I wasn’t with him. Ever. But my sister was and he thought I was her.”

  “I know. I figured that out. Eventually.”

  “That’s why you left? Instead of talking to me?”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Agreed.”

  I need to touch her. It’s killing me having her this close and not in my arms, but I settle for picking up her hand and she allows it.

  “I’m sorry too,” she says. “I’m sorry I told you my name was Daisy. Everything else I told you was true. My feelings were true. You must think I’m crazy.”

  She looks at me, and I see the vulnerability in her eyes. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

  “You’re exactly the kind of crazy I’ve been looking for my entire life.”

  She laughs. “Right.”

  “I’m quite serious, Violet,” I tell her and she grins.

  “Quite serious.” She giggles. “I love how everything sounds so posh when you say it. You could get me to do just about anything when you say words like quite with that British accent.”

  “Good. Marry me.”

  That wipes the smile right off her face. Not quite what I’d intended. “What?” I’m glad she’s sitting because she looks a little pale.

  “Marry me.”

  “That’s”—she pauses, sucks in a breath—”insane. We’ve known each other a week.”

  “So?” I realize I’ve missed a step of a proper proposal so I grab a paperclip from the conference table and bend it open, twisting it into a wonky circle as I kneel in front of her.

  “Are you insane?” Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking her head back and forth. “I wasn’t questioning why you weren’t on your knees. I was questioning how you could ask me to marry you when we barely know each other.”

  “I know enough, Violet. I’m asking because I’m sure. I’m sure of what we are when we’re together. I’m sure that I can’t live without you. I’m sure that I’m in love with you.”

  She sucks in a breath so I forge on.

  “Our lives will be outstanding together, Violet—you and I—because I won’t allow anything less for you. I’m all in. I’m the sure thing, Violet. When it comes to you, I’m the sure thing. You told me once that no one’s ever asked. I’m asking. Marry me.”

  She blinks once, then again, and I wonder what she’s thinking. She takes the paperclip ring from my hand and stares at it, rubbing it between her finger and thumb but not putting it on.

  “I’ll get you a nicer one. Of course.” God, she can’t be thinking I expect her to wear that, can she? “Whatever you like. We’ll pick it out together. We can be engaged as long as you like.” No, that’s a lie. “A few months,” I clarify, and then when her eyes widen—”A year.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “You’ll work here,” I continue. “Take the job.”

  That seems to snap her out of her daze. But when she speaks I don’t like what she has to say.

  “No.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Violet

  He’s serious.

  He’s not messing with me. He’s absolutely, completely serious. And that declaration took some balls.

  “No?”

  He doesn’t even look bothered by the rejection. Not in a way that implies that he doesn’t care. But in a way that implies he won’t accept no as an answer, so it’s irrelevant. He gets off his knees though and sits, his posture confident. As if this ends how he wants. His elbows are resting on his knees and he’s leaning into me, invading my space. Trampling my thoughts. My heart long since breached.

  “No, I’m not going to work for you. It’s weird.”

  “Why is it weird? My entire family works together. Hell, my parents give each other lifts to work every morning. That was my mum who interviewed you, by the way. Stepmum, but she’s the one who raised me. I had nothing to do with you getting this interview. You got this on your own. We don’t fly people in for interviews if we’re not keen. The job will be yours on your own merits.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I love you, Jennings. It’s insanity, but I do love you. More than I ever thought was possible, but I need a career separate from you. I won’t have my entire identity wrapped up in you.”

  He kisses me then. One moment he’s a foot away and the next his hand is behind my neck and he’s pulling my lips to his. Softly at first. Then my lips part and his tongue invades and I don’t know how I can be expected to resist him. But then he speaks, and he doesn’t make me.

  “Fine. You’ll get another job. Somewhere in London. Or I’ll relocate to the States if you prefer.”

  “You’ll relocate?” I laugh. The idea is preposterous.

  “Yes. If you leave I’ll follow. Wherever you are, I’ll be. I’ll make it work.”

  “Are you for real? Is this really happening?”

  “So that’s a yes to the proposal, no to the job offer?”

  “I don’t know, Jennings. This is all so fast.”

  “Say yes for now. Give me that much. Say yes for now. I’ve had longer to think this through than you have. All night, in fact. On a very long flight in a shite center seat in coach because my friend Canon has a perverse sense of humour. Say yes for now and I’ll ask again when you’re ready. In three weeks or three months or three years. Whatever it takes to get you to agree to spend your life with me. Just say yes.”

  I stare at him, unsure how I could deny him anything. Unsure why I’d even want to.

  “Yes.”

  Epilogue

  Violet

  I can do this.

  Women do this all the time, and it’s not as though it’s even particularly difficult. I mean, I don’t want to insinuate that anyone who can’t figure this out is an idiot, but they’re most likely idiots.

  But maybe—just to be safe, mind you—I’ll read the instructions one more time.

  Five seconds. Got it.

  The thing is, I got some tips from a blog after typing ‘tips for taking a pregnancy test’ into Google, and now I’m not sure if I bought the right test because tip number one was choose the right HPT. What in the hell is an HPT? I had a whole shelf to choose from at Waitrose and I don’t recall seeing that on any of them. I grabbed one that promised rapid results and ninety-nine percent accuracy and put it in my basket next to the Dairy Milk buttons and the multipack of Jaffa Cakes because I’m probably pregnant and I deserve them.

  Anyway, tip number one was choose the right HPT. The next tip was wait for the results. Duh. The post actually suggested I take a break and sip on a cup of tea or coffee while waiting. So dumb.

  “Babe, can you bring me a cup of tea?”

  “Violet, just pee on the stick. It’s quite literally the only direction on the box. I don’t understand why you keep reading it over and over again, love.” He tosses the empty box onto the vanity where it lands with a hollow thud.

  Tip number three was check the expiration date on the test, which I’ve done of course, but the way they list the date before month in the UK still throws me a little.

  “Does that test expire on the seventh of October or the tenth of July?”

  “It expires on the seventh of October,” Jennings says patiently. He’s going to be such a good dad. �
��Two years from now,” he adds with a bit of sarcasm.

  “It could be twins, you know,” I say, mostly just to mess with him. The confidence on his face falters a bit as he reaches over to pick up the box again. “There isn’t a home test for twins. We’d have to wait until the first ultrasound to find out.” Assuming they both showed up at the first ultrasound. My mom was six months along before they found the second heartbeat. Holy crap, it really could be twins.

  “Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, a twofer would be lovely.”

  “A twofer? Did you just refer to the idea of me carrying two babies at the same time as a twofer? As if I’m carrying a twin pack of chocolate biscuits?”

  “Would you prefer I call it a twin win?” He shrugs, unbothered by my reply. “I’m almost forty, love. I’d be quite chuffed to hit the ground running with two.”

  Dammit.

  I’m positive he ups the British word count when I’m on the edge of being cross with him. He knows it’s my weakness. He can get away with just about anything if he tosses in words like ‘knackered’ or ‘gutted’ into a sentence.

  It occurs to me then that I’m going to have a British baby.

  Do you know what’s great about British babies?

  Everything.

  I mean, I know they’re basically the same as American babies, but they have super-cool names like Poppy or Pippa. Amelia or Isla. Oscar or George. Well, maybe not George. Then when they get around to speaking it’s in a British accent and let me tell you, a child having a tantrum in Waitrose with a British accent is about a hundred times less annoying than a child having a tantrum in Wal-Mart in an American accent. It’s a fact. Wait a minute…

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  “They’re going to call me Mummy.” I say it as a matter of fact as I drop my pants and sit. I don’t even care that Jennings is still standing in the bathroom with me because we’ve been married a while now and way past tiptoeing around one another in the loo. I hold out my hand for the stick and Jennings hands it to me.

  “Er, yes. I suppose so. Though I’m certain we could teach them to call you Mom if you prefer it.”

  “No!” I shake my head. “Are you crazy? I get to be a mum!” I finish with the test and snap the cap over the absorbent tip before placing it on the counter. “Don’t look at it without me!” I warn as I flush and wiggle my pants up, then wash my hands. Jennings wisely doesn’t move from his position leaning against the wall. “Has it been sixty seconds yet?”

  “More like fourteen.”

  “Oh.”

  I manage to keep my eyes on his for another three seconds before I give up on patience and move to the counter, leaning over the test with my elbows braced on the counter and my chin resting on my hand. Jennings moves behind me, his arms bracketing mine as he leans in and dips his head next to mine.

  “Don’t distract me,” I say, because when he’s this close we tend to end up distracted. Naked and distracted.

  “I’m not doing anything,” he replies but when he speaks his breath tickles my neck and I get butterflies in my stomach. The butterflies get bigger as his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against my neck, because the results are in. Two lines. Two very distinctive, no-doubt-about-it lines.

  I spin around so we’re facing each other and then we’re both smiling and laughing and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me from the bathroom through to the adjoining master.

  “You won’t be able to do this much longer,” I mumble.

  “Do what? Make love to you in the middle of the day? The baby will nap, surely.”

  “No, silly. You won’t be able to carry me like this much longer.” My arms are on his shoulders with my fingers interwoven behind his neck. I look down at the gap between us and back at him. “I won’t fit.”

  “Hmm, probably not.” He drops me onto the bed with a dirty grin and I bounce as my ass hits the mattress. “I’ll carry you sideways if need be. How’s that?”

  “You’re supposed to say something more reassuring than that.” I wrinkle my nose at him and narrow my eyes. “Lie to me. Tell me I’m going to gain less than a stone and total strangers will marvel over my svelte pregnancy figure.”

  I hear women at work talk about weight in terms of stones. I’ve no idea what the conversion is to pounds but I like the idea of only needing to lose one of something.

  I don’t work for Jennings. I held firm on needing my own identity. It took months to find a job once I relocated to London and I was tempted to cave, to admit defeat and buckle to the fears that I’d be unable to find anything on my own. But I didn’t. I stuck to it and eventually I found a position with a boutique design firm in London. I’ve learned so much and I love it and for now, it’s a perfect fit.

  Jennings still wants me to work for the family company, of course. He says I’m brilliant and I’m denying the company my talent. He fills my head with visions of walking to work together and secret afternoon trysts in his office.

  I’ll agree, someday. I’ve got a few more things I want to accomplish professionally on my own first. All in due time.

  “Probably two or three stone,” Jennings says. “I think you’re more likely to gain two or three.”

  Oh. That’s starting to sound like a lot. “But the baby will be a stone of that, right?”

  “I should hope not, for your sake.”

  “That’s not helpful.” I really need to look into this stone thing more carefully.

  “You’re going to be the most gorgeously lush pregnant woman London has ever seen. Your pregnancy style will cause a sensation envied by women citywide, whilst every man under eighty will wish he were me.”

  “That’s better.”

  I lie back on the bed as Jennings lies next to me, one hand spread across my flat stomach. Our heads are turned towards one another and I rest my hand on top of his. He’s making the softest circles on my stomach, the touch a combination of possessive and comforting.

  “You’ll be stunning. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

  “You won’t?”

  “I promise you I won’t. I’m quite looking forward to watching your body change.”

  “You are?” This is news to me. He’s made his interest in children clear, but without pressuring me. He respected my need to establish my career on a new continent and has patiently waited for me to be ready. We’ve talked about it in the abstract, checking in with each other on timing and interest, but this I’ve not heard.

  “You’ll be huge by summer and I’m going to buy you loads of pregnancy sundresses.”

  “How sweet. And I’ll still love you when you have no hair.” He’s got great hair. It was all I could come up with.

  He laughs. “It’ll get me off. Seeing you swell with my child.”

  Damn. That’s some caveman talk right there. And makes me a little excited, if I’m being honest.

  “Are you proud of yourself?” I ask him, fighting the grin from my face and doing my best to ask the question innocently.

  “For knocking you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite chuffed, yes.”

  I laugh then, giggling until something else occurs to me. “Wait.” I bolt straight up on the bed and stare at Jennings. “I’m going to have a baby in England.”

  “Yes. That’s indeed what’s happening.”

  “Do you do it the same here?”

  “Do what the same?”

  “Deliver babies.”

  “I believe they do it the same everywhere, love.”

  “This country doesn’t even know what Hidden Valley Ranch is. Nothing is the same.”

  “I’m not sure one has anything to do with the other, but I’ll ensure a case of salad dressing is shipped over before your due date.”

  “People don’t refrigerate their eggs here.”

  “Also not relevant, but we can go over that again if you l
ike.”

  “This country doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and no one eats pumpkin pie.” I’ve hopped off the bed now to pace and I wave my hand at him about the pie.

  “Violet, you don’t like pumpkin pie.”

  “That’s a valid point,” I agree.

  “We have afternoon tea in England. You know how you enjoy the mini-sandwiches and the assorted cakes.”

  “Also true, but what does that have to do with delivering a baby?”

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were just talking gibberish about the differences between our homelands.”

  “No, babe. I have a point.”

  “Of course you do.” He nods without laughing at me, which is a really important quality in a husband.

  “What if I do it wrong? What if I go into labor and they say, ‘Sorry, Violet, you were supposed to have pre-booked a room, you’ll need to deliver it yourself now. Good luck?’”

  “That’s not likely to happen anywhere in the UK. Or elsewhere for that matter.”

  “You never know.”

  “Tell you what,” Jennings says, sitting up on the bed and putting on his thinking face. It’s the face he uses when he’s trying to rationalize with me about things such as the lack of flavored coffee creamer available in this country.

  “What?”

  “We’ll use the same hospital Will and Kate did. Will that work for you?”

  “Shut up!” I gasp. I stop pacing and face him. “We can do that? For real? Normal people have babies there?” If they delivered the future king of England then they can probably deliver this kid.

  “Yes. We can do that. Anyone willing to pay private hospital fees can do that. Is that the end of your concerns?”

  “It is for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind at any time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good thing we just finished the renovation on the mews house.” That’s what they call a guest house over here. A mews house. It was originally a carriage house—like an actual carriage house. For horse-drawn carriages. Insane, right? I can’t believe I live in a house old enough that it has a horse garage.

  I mean a mews house. Jennings has told me repeatedly that horse garage is not the correct term.