Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“I’m currently sitting on the toilet waiting for a pregnancy test to process.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yup.”
“Is that… I mean, are you and Hale trying?”
“We’ve been, but it’s not as easy as it seems. My expectations are low.”
“Oh. Well, how long does it take?”
“We’ve been trying for over a year.”
“No, how long does it take for the test results, Rayne?”
“Oh. Three minutes.” I stared down at the tiny window where one blue line appeared.
“This is a big deal. I feel so special being a part of it.”
“Shh.” I couldn’t think or blink and Tyler’s words were making it harder to see. I just needed him on the line for emotional support.
“You called me.”
“I think I see something.”
“What do you see?”
Was that another faint line? It was so light. Sometimes that happened, but it never got any darker. I swallowed tightly, an uncomfortable tension headache developing behind my eye.
“Ray?”
“Oh, my God.”
“What is it? Should we Facetime? I can’t see your face.”
“Tyler… I’m pregnant.”
Turns Out, I Can Grow Things
Ikept the news to myself for three whole days. Marta, Tyler, Willow, and my doctor, who confirmed the results, were the only people who knew I had a bun in the oven. Keeping such a big secret was killing me, but I wanted to tell Hale in person. Thank God he was on his way home.
I dropped Elara off at Remington’s for an impromptu sleepover. It always gave me a little thrill when I hijacked his plans for some surprise grandpa time. He bitched and moaned, but then he melted because, let’s face it, Elara was irresistible.
As soon as I got home, I got to cooking—not something I usually did--but this was a special occasion. Hale was scheduled to arrive in less than an hour and it had been a while since I used my culinary skills, so I needed every second.
The baby spinach salad was prepped, the baby carrots were glazed and ready to go in the skillet, and the baby back ribs were already roasting in the oven. It didn’t take a genius to sense the theme. But in case Hale missed it, I also made a playlist—all songs with baby in the title.
As the Supremes crooned Baby Love, I carefully wrapped the baby hotdogs in their little blankets because nothing screamed pregnancy like little wieners swaddled in pastry. For dessert, I picked up two baby cakes from Chef Dubois—one with pink frosting and one with blue.
The table was set, and things looked good, but something smelled off. I rushed to the kitchen and sniffed the air, trying to locate the culprit. The ribs were cooking nicely, and carrots were bubbling on the stove. Everything was calm. So why did I smell smoke?
I scanned the kitchen, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. Then, I tracked the smell to the dining room but found nothing amiss. The table looked fine, and all the taper candles were straight—“Oh shit!”
I ran into the living room and found the source of smoke. A pillar candle I had set on the side table flickered with a five-inch flame, singing the corner of some work of art that probably cost more than my car.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I blew out the candle and pulled the heavy frame off the wall. Flames climbed up the canvas, melting the gilded frame.
I held the painting between my outstretched arms, angling it away from my face, and spun in a circle, not sure what to do. “Oh, no!”
The center of the portrait bubbled with a heat blister and opened as the flame melted through the underside. The smoke detector started to blare.
“What do I do?” I panicked and rushed through the smoky living room toward the back door. Wrenching open the glass, careful not to catch myself on fire in the process, I screamed. The highly flammable oil paint blazed like a torch the second the wind came into play, and I screamed.
“Son of a bitch!” I hurled the painting into the pool the second I smelled burnt hair and the flames went out with a hiss.
Panting for breath, I stared at the floating work of art as it singed on the surface. “Well, that’s ruined.”
I dusted off my hands and went back inside to beat the smoke detector off the ceiling with a broomstick. Coughing, I shut off the air conditioning and opened the windows to air out the house. Then, I made sure there were no more fire hazards.
The front door opened just as Mariah Carey kicked off Always Be My Baby. “Rayne?”
A little frazzled, I rushed to greet Hale. “Hey. Welcome home.” I untied my apron and tossed it behind me into the kitchen.
Hale glanced around the house at the candles and sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
“I made dinner.” Rising on my tippy-toes, I pressed a kiss to his lips and took his bags, setting them by the door. “Come have a seat.”