by Hart, Staci
“Cam.” Another warning, this one coupled with a humorless look from Greg. “You promised.”
My face screwed up. “I’m not gonna hurt anybody. I’m just gonna give them a little…push.”
“A little push with a battering ram.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are such a killjoy, Gregory Brandon.”
“Am not. But I have been on the other end of your designs, and it’s no fun.”
“Please,” I said on a laugh. “I’m a barrel of laughs. A tiny car full of clowns. A circus full of tiny dressed-up mice. I, dear sir, am the very epitome of fun.”
He shook his head, though he was chuckling. “You promised you’d give it up. Rose is gonna be pissed if you meddle with the two of them.”
I tried to climb off my stool, but I mostly slid. “That’s why we’re not going to tell her.”
Annie worried her bottom lip. “I’m a terrible liar, Cam.”
“Well, lucky for you, you don’t work here anymore. You’re safe. Just keep your man in line for me.”
She laughed. “I mean, I’ll try.”
“Don’t you know what a sucker he is for you, Annie?” I asked. “Pretty sure all you have to do is ask.”
Greg shrugged and leaned over the bar to kiss her. “It’s true,” he said, smiling like a fool.
But I had already set my sights on Jett and Abbey again. “I’ll make sure they’re working the mixer together. It’ll be the perfect time to see if there really is something there.”
Greg had taken up his post as a naysayer again, all humor gone. “I don’t like it.”
“All right, I’ll make you a deal.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m listening.”
“I’ll see what I can see at the mixer, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll walk. Deal?”
He didn’t answer right away, his lips flattening as he considered my proposal. Truth was, he probably knew it was the best offer he’d get.
“Just the mixer? No funny business?”
I held up my fingers like a boy scout. “No funny business, I promise.”
He gave me a skeptical look but stuck his hand out. “Deal.”
I took his big paw and shook it, smirking.
Because I was a hundred percent ready to prove how right I was.
B Hole
Tyler
All I’d wanted when I left this morning was to get home again.
As I hurried up the stairs to our apartment, the vision of her that morning settling into my thoughts. I’d stopped in the threshold of our bedroom, the room lit only by the breaking dawn slipping in through the curtains. Cam had been in the middle of the bed wrapped up in a giant pillow shaped like a U that had been cock blocking me for three months. Her belly rested in one of the curves, her arms wrapped around it like a sloth, her dark hair in a messy knot on top of her head. She was so tiny, her belly so big, our bed gigantic, the sheets tangled around her like she’d wrestled her way out of them. But her face was slack and peaceful, all the lines of worry smoothed.
The urge to climb back in bed with her—pillow be damned—was so strong, I had almost undone my tie before sighing and tightening the knot again.
Her pregnancy had not been an easy one.
She’d been an anxious mess, worrying over anything and everything. She hadn’t eaten anything on the list—some of which I thought was utter bullshit. Seriously, our grandmothers drank scotch when they were pregnant, but Cam hadn’t had a single cup of coffee in seven months.
This had also proved to be problematic. Caffeine deprived, morning sickness Cam had proven a force to be reckoned with, and surviving it had been a testament to the strength of our marriage.
She’d even cut out all junk food because of some article she’d read that said there was a chance she’d get gestational diabetes. Which was also adorable, as she weighed a buck-ten soaking wet and with rolls of nickels in her pockets.
But it made her feel better. More in control. So we ate all the kale, cooked all the cookie dough, avoided lunchmeat like herpes, and quit buying Kettle chips. That last one was admittedly the hardest.
Sometimes I wondered if she would have felt differently if we hadn’t lost two babies.
It happened early both times, which I couldn’t say made it easier, but it was a small comfort in a time when we needed all the comfort we could get. The second time was the hardest—she spent a week in that bed in the dark, and I spent that week in bed with her. But it didn’t matter how tightly I held her. It didn’t matter what I said. There was nothing I could do to take away her pain but be there.
So that was what I did.
A month later, she came home from work with that look in her eye, full of fight and determination and optimism by sheer force of will. She was ready to try again.
This time, she made it out of the danger zone, then out of the second trimester, and now here she was, at the end. I knew our losses weren’t her fault, and I knew there was nothing we could have done differently. Cam would have told you she knew the same. But the truth was that she took responsibility for those losses. And the more immediate truth was that she was terrified she’d somehow do it again.
But she’d done it. Any day now, our baby would be born.
I really should put the crib together.
The apartment was quiet when I walked in—my ears perked, listening for her as I set my keys in the dish by the door.
“I’m in here,” she called, reading my mind as she so often did.
I was still smiling as I set down my things and pulled off my coat, beelining through the living room for the bedrooms.
I found her sitting in the middle of what used to be my room, surrounded by crib pieces, screws, a hefty booklet, and an Allen wrench. In front of her was the beginnings of a crib. I was almost certain the pieces were on backward.
Her eyes teemed with tears.
She looked away, fussing with the instructions as she sniffled. “Hey, babe.” Her nose was stuffy, her words muffled.
I was no longer smiling.
“Hey,” I said gently as I approached. “It finally got to you, huh?”
“Well, she’s not gonna have anywhere to sleep if I don’t. I just…” She sighed and sniffled again as I stretched out next to her. “These instructions are stupid.” She tossed them.
I picked them up and thumbed through them. “Hmm. I see. Want some help?”
She snatched them out of my fingers. “No, I can do it.”
I smirked but set the instructions down to reach for her face instead. “I know you can. You can do anything.”
Her little chin wobbled. “It’s just that the A holes don’t line up with the B holes.”
A laugh burst out of me.
Cam rolled her eyes, but an unwilling smile tugged at her lips. “And these stupid screws don’t fit in there. Look!” She picked one up and shoved it into the hole, but it jammed a third of the way in.
“Careful. Everybody knows you should never force it into the B hole.”
That earned me an actual laugh, though it almost immediately dissolved. “What is wrong with me? I can’t put a stupid crib together. How am I going to coordinate schedules and doctor’s appointments? How will I be able to make baby food and keep the house clean and keep Lucy fed and happy and alive if I can’t put together Ikea furniture?”
“Okay, first—no one should compare their ability to assemble Ikea furniture to any other area of their life. What you’re currently doing requires a level of patience and brainpower that very few women would possess at nine months pregnant.”
She sighed and slumped over her belly. “The baby ate my brain, didn’t she?”
“Yesterday, you went to pour a glass of water from the sink but had grabbed a plate instead of a glass. And you didn’t notice until you were soaked. So, yes, I think it’s safe to say the baby ate your brain. Second—” I held out my hand, palm up. “Hand over the Allen wrench.”
Her mouth screwed up and her brows drew together, but s
he put the little L-shaped torture device in my hand. Begrudgingly.
I stood, stuffing the offending tool in my pocket. “Come with me,” I said, offering her my hand to help her up. “I got you something.”
“You—oof—did?” She grunted, wobbling awkwardly as she hauled herself up. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders as hers wound around my waist. The top of her bun was close enough to my nose to smell the crisp jasmine of her shampoo that I loved so much.
“Mhm.” I guided her into the living room and deposited her onto the couch. “Tell me about your day.”
As I walked into the kitchen, she sighed, hand on her belly and feet on the coffee table. “It was fine, same old.”
“How’s your new girl doing?” The grocery bag rustled as I pulled the tub of ice cream out.
“Abbey? Fantastic. She shadowed Jett today and the two of them were like a couple of hens all day, clucking through the store about books. I don’t think either one of them stopped talking to breathe. I know for a fact neither of them took a lunch break.” Another sigh, this one dreamy. “They are so cute together, Tyler. They would make the prettiest babies. We could even have their baby shower at Wasted Words. I bet they’d pick out a literary name.”
I frowned, glancing over my shoulder at her. “Cam,” I warned.
“Ugh, you and Greg. You two are the worst!”
“I love you, but your track record sucks.”
“But this is so easy. They’re already into each other—I can tell. And her boyfriend, if he’s even real, lives in Canada.”
My brows drew together while I scooped ice cream. “If he’s even real?” I echoed.
“He could totally be fictional. Maybe she just said that so Harrison wouldn’t hit on her.”
“So your solution is to force her into dating a not-Harrison coworker?”
“Not force, just…nudge.”
My protestation was on my tongue, but she headed me off.
“I’m only going to take one very gentle, very low-key crack at it. At the mixer tomorrow night. If sparks don’t fly, I’ll leave it alone. I swear.”
I crossed the room and handed her the bowl. She took it with the tip of her tongue sticking out of her lips and her eyes big and hungry.
“You realize you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment, right?” I sat, and she shifted, slipping her feet into my lap. They were so swollen, I couldn’t see the delicate bones on the top, and her ankle bone was barely a speedbump.
“Maybe,” she said around a mouthful of ice cream. The second I grabbed her foot and pressed my thumbs into the arch, she moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head.
“Probably,” I amended. “She has a boyfriend.”
“She said they’re probably breaking up anyway. Really, I have a good feeling about this,” she said with matter of fact hope, her eyes on her spoon as it dove in for a refill.
For a second, I said nothing, just rubbed her foot and listened to her moan with pornographic enthusiasm that had me at full mast almost instantly.
Seriously, it felt like it had been forever. She was as beautiful as ever, her elven face and big eyes, her smiling lips. She even had that glow you hear about, like she was illuminated from the inside, her cheeks rosy and round. In fact, everything about her was round, the broad curve of her stomach, the fullness of her breasts, the roundness of her ass. She was a goddess, even if she didn’t see it.
I did.
As I watched her shovel ice cream into her mouth, I considered everything we’d been through. I imagined her on our wedding day, tears in her eyes as she said I do. Holding her in the golden light of the reception tent, swaying to “Call Me Crazy.” Remembered the moment we got our first positive pregnancy test, the absolute joy and elation and hope that sang in both of us. Recounted the day I came home to find her panicked, the night we sat in the emergency room, the moment they told us we’d lost our first child.
And her anxiety twisted and tightened to the point that it was unbearable.
Not for me—for her. And there was nothing I could do about it but watch. Love her. Give her whatever she needed. And right now, she needed control.
If exercising that on a couple of unsuspecting employees would ease that for a minute, there was only one thing left to do.
I leaned over, kissed her cold, sweet lips, and said, “One crack. Promise?”
She smiled triumphantly, shifting to set her bowl on the coffee table. “Promise.”
When she kissed me again, it was with relief, with hope, with joy. And when her hands slipped down my chest and to my belt buckle, I swear a chorus of angels sang.
It was then I decided to burn that stupid pillow or die trying.
Constant
Cam
The mixer was banging.
Literally. “Highway to Hell” was playing, and the entire crowd was headbanging to the beat.
I probably should have rethought our theme for the mixer. It was Chosen One night, and it wasn’t until the bar was full of gender-bent heroes that I realized almost every Chosen One in fiction was a guy.
Fucking patriarchy.
Some of us had found our female heroines and rose to the occasion. I’d spotted two Buffys, a Daenerys Targaryen, Serena from Sailor Moon, and a Korra. I was dressed as Sonmi from Cloud Atlas. Well, pregnant Sonmi.
Tyler was Thor, complete with a blond wig that rendered him almost unrecognizable, and a cap with wings. And my God, he was gorgeous—his guns were out in full effect, his height coupled with his cape and all that hair was almost imposing. He attracted all attention, particularly of the female variety. If I’d had a waist, I’d have been wrapped around him like a mink stole. But I didn’t have to. He’d kept me under his arm all night, never leaving my side. Never not touching me, kissing me, smiling at me.
Tyler was my favorite thing in the whole world. Ever.
He was not headbanging. I figured it was for the sake of his flaxen coif. I would have headbanged, but I was almost positive I’d tilt and hit the ground—my equilibrium was garbage.
But we laughed and pointed out costumes we liked, occasionally high-fiving a passerby with a particularly high-five worthy rig.
I spotted Abbey across the room and waved her over, scanning the crowd for Jett.
“Hey!” she called as she approached, her cheeks flushed from dancing. She nudged her glasses up her nose. “This party is incredible. I can’t believe I actually work here!”
“Believe it,” I said on a laugh. “This is my husband, Tyler. Also known as Thor of Asgard.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile, extending a hand, which she took. “So, who are you?”
“King Arthur. See?” She flipped the broad hood of her cape, her chest plate bearing the mark of the crusades. She rested her hand on the hilt of Excalibur. “Although I went the Mists of Avalon route.” She pushed up her sleeves, revealing druid snake tattoos.
“Badass. And that cloak is epic,” I breathed. I slapped Tyler in the arm. “Babe, I need one of these.”
He snorted a laugh. “You have like four cloaks.”
“Well, what’s one more?” I joked, not joking at all. “So, how’s Etienne?”
Her face fell. “Oh. I don’t really know. I think he might have ghosted me.”
I reached for her arm. “Oh, Abbey. I’m so sorry.” And I really was. I also really knew exactly who could make her feel better.
She tried to smile and rolled a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s okay. I…I thought he was the one, but I guess I was wrong. He hasn’t answered my calls in two days, and that was after he asked me to move to Quebec and I refused.”
“What a dick,” I shot. “Screw that guy. He didn’t know what he had.” My gaze caught Jett, and I threw my hand in the air, waving like a maniac.
He waved back and started toward us when I made the universal sign for come here. He was also dressed as a medieval fantasy sort of something, though I couldn’t tell who at a glance.
But Abbey
took one look at him and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God. You’re Aragorn.”
She reached out to touch his vest, straight out of Lord of the Rings, which was embroidered in gold thread with a leafless tree. His cloak—because of course he had one too—was even fastened at the neck with an elven pin.
Jett smiled and bowed regally. “At your service.”
“Oh, to be Arwen,” Abbey said under her breath.
Jett laughed, flashing his brilliant teeth.
I gave Tyler a look in the hopes he would acknowledge my rightness. But he only rolled his eyes.
“Did you listen to that album?” Jett asked enthusiastically.
“The second I got out of work. It reminds me of The Smiths Meat is Murder album. I’m obsessed—I’ve been listening to it on a loop.”
“I knew you’d like it,” he said, looking down at her like he’d just opened a birthday present.
I snagged Tyler’s hand. “Ah, uh, help me with something, babe. Excuse us, guys. Have fun!”
I towed my bewildered and mildly objectional husband to the end of the horseshoe bar where the setup for the music was.
“I have an idea,” I said, scrolling through the playlist.
“This is painful,” Tyler muttered.
I hit play and grabbed the mic as “Waiting for a Girl Like You” by Foreigner came on. “All right, party people. All of you Chosen Kings out there, grab another king and sway like it’s the eighth grade Valentine’s dance. Get as close as you want—your chaperones are drunk! Not in a king costume? Head to the bar for five-dollar wells.”
A roll of laughter went through the crowd, and they began to pair off and sway. Including the objects of my objective.
They looked so stupid happy, all shy and coy and smiling, her arms reaching for his neck and his circling her waist. They were hip to hip.
I gestured to them, beaming. “I am a fucking genius. Admit it.”
He chuckled and bent to kiss me. “I mean, it’s a little obvious—”
“Hey.” I swatted his muscly arm.
“—But I approve.”