#Texture was you couldn’t wipe it off because it’s proof maybe mom still loves you

[fucknugg3t]

the downside to this being so uncomfortable is that like I want to look in the mirror and be reminded yk I want to remember I was held and kissed everytime I see my reflection and then feel all soft and shit BUT I CANT BECAUSE LIPSTICK IS CREAMY AND STICKY

why does lipstick have to be so texture I don’t want that on me I don’t want that on my face stop it don’t kiss me with that goddamnit

[lolablackwrites]

Sacrifices - Drake x MC

Summary: After meeting Savannah and hearing her story, MC (Riley Mason) realizes what she has to do for the man she loves.

Notes: This a fic requested by @storiesbehindyoureyes from the New Kiss Fics prompt list, #20: the “everything hurts right now including being loved by you, but you’re also the only thing that makes it feel better” kiss. Thanks for the request, I hope you enjoy it! :-)

I’m still accepting requests from this list, so if you want to read something, let me know! Thank you for your requests! ❤️

Fanfic Master List

“Dinner in fifteen minutes,” Maxwell said as they stopped outside Riley’s bedroom compartment on the train. “Unless you want to go now? I’m starving.”

Riley forced a smile but shook her head. If she didn’t get into her bedroom alone, she thought she was going to burst into tears where she stood and she didn’t want to explain that to Maxwell, not now. Maybe not ever.

“I’ve been traipsing around Paris all day in these clothes, I think I should change into something else,” Riley said. Maxwell grinned.

“See, that’s why you’ve got to go for an all black ensemble,” Maxwell said as he gestured to his outfit. “Black hides the dirt.”

“But not the smell.”

Surprised, Maxwell sniffed under one of his arms and then immediately recoiled, wrinkling his nose.

“Okay, maybe I’ll change, too. Meet you in the dining car?” he asked. Riley nodded and Maxwell left, leaving her with her own thoughts. She quickly opened the door to her bedroom and hurried inside, doing her best not to slam the sliding door behind her. Any loud noises might arouse suspicion. Once closed, she leaned against the door, slumped to the floor, and started to sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the great having cries that wracked her body while tears streamed over her fingers and down her forearm.

There was no other way. It had to be like this.

At first she’d been so happy to find Savannah, so happy for Drake to finally find his sister. He smiled so rarely and to watch him meet his nephew . . . Riley was so in love with Drake’s smile. Then there had been the elevator after they’d left Savannah’s apartment:

“Thanks for showing me how to hold Bartie,” Drake said. “You’re a natural with kids.”

“Hey, you’re not so bad yourself,” Riley said. “He warmed up to you really quickly, and babies are good judges of character.”

“I guess I’ll take it as a good sign for the future,” Drake said. “Maybe I’ll be an okay dad--as long as you’re there to help me out.”

Riley’s grinned at those words and she grinned as hopeful fantasies fluttered through her mind: Drake sweeping her into a hug when she told him she was expecting; Drake kissing her swollen belly and talking to their baby; watching Drake hold their baby for the first time. She kissed him as the numbers in the elevator ticked down to the lobby, his calloused palms brushing her cheeks.

“That sounds perfect,” she said.

But after Maxwell had joined them and they’d begun the limo ride back towards the train, a devastating thought had occurred to Riley: being with Drake, especially in the forever kind of way that she wanted, would be impossible. There were too many people relying on her to take a different path. Riley leaned her head back against the door to her bedroom and stared at the ceiling, her eyes following the textured paint whorls. How had this happened? She had just been a waitress in a bar and now here she was, crying in a train with the future security of at least four people contingent on her becoming a queen.

When it had just been Maxwell and Bertrand, it had been easier to envision a different kind of life for herself, a life with Drake. After everything the Beaumonts had done for her, she wanted to help them but if things didn’t work out with Liam, Riley had convinced herself that they would be okay. But that was before. Now that she knew about Savannah and Bartie, everything was different. Drake’s sister and his nephew were entirely dependent on the Beaumonts for survival and Riley knew she couldn’t turn her back on them in favor of her own selfish desires. True, there were many single moms all over the world who didn’t have someone bankrolling an expensive apartment and high end clothes who made it work, but Riley had a feeling that Savannah was unlikely to get a job anytime soon. However, none of that was Bartie’s fault--why should he have to suffer just because of his mother? Riley tried to tell herself that none of this was her problem, that Savannah and the Beaumonts should figure out their own lives like adults, but then she closed her eyes and thought of Drake holding his nephew. Riley couldn’t just turn her back on Bartie and Savannah because they were a part of Drake and he was a part of her.

Drake stretched out beside her in the narrow train bed, his skin still damp with sweat from the exertion. Riley curled her naked body around his, her body still echoing with the aftershock of pleasure.

“I love you,” he said. Those words still sent a thrill through her stomach every time he said them.

“I love you, too,” she said as she kissed him, pressing her lips to his smile.

They stayed in each other’s arms until the rocking of the train had finally lulled them to sleep.

Had that really only been last night? With everything she’d learned today, their last tryst felt like another lifetime.

Riley stood up, wiping her tear-slicked hands on her jeans. She had to pull herself together, she couldn’t show up at the dining car with her face all red and puffy. Riley took a washcloth and ran it under the faucet at the small sink in the corner before she pressed it to her face. The cold fabric was a relief against her hot skin as the terry cloth wiped away the tears she’d cried. She draped the washcloth over the edge of the sink basin and rifled through her bag until she found some clean clothes to change into. Without the press around, she was fairly certain Bertrand wouldn’t object to her wearing jeans to dinner. Or, at least, he wouldn’t object too much.

Riley had just pulled a fresh t-shirt on when she heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said, glancing quickly at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She didn’t look great, but she didn’t look awful either. The door slid aside to reveal Drake standing there.

“Hey,” he said. “I thought I’d escort you to the dining--are you okay?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes, why?” Riley asked, keeping her voice calm. Seeing Drake standing there, looking so beautiful and relaxed, was almost too much to bear, but she knew she had to keep her feelings in check for the time being.

“Your face is all red . . . have you been crying?” Drake asked as he quickly crossed the room to meet her, gently cupping her face in his hands.

“Oh, no, I was just washing my face,” Riley lied as she gestured to the washcloth as proof. Drake visibly sighed with relief.

“Okay, good,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “Hey, thanks for convincing me to stay today and talk to Savannah. Without you, I might’ve made a mistake and left and then I would’ve missed out on this.” Drake pulled the photo of him and his sister with her son out of his back pocket. Riley looked at the picture of the man she loved and his family, the reasons she was going to have to give up Drake and pursue a life with someone else. It wasn’t like she’d be stuck with someone horrible; Liam was great, wonderful in fact--but he wasn’t Drake and never would be.

“Mason,” Drake whispered. “Mason, wake up.”

“Hmm?” Riley asked, trying to pull herself out of a dream. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Drake said. “3:00? Maybe 3:30?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Drake said. “I just . . . I had to talk to you about something and I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Oh, yeah? What sort of something?” Riley asked as she grinned and ran a hand down the length of his naked body. Drake smiled and took her hand in his, kissing her fingers.

“No, it’s something else,” he said as she sat up. There wasn’t much room in Riley’s narrow bed on the train, but she followed suit and sat up as well.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. Drake took her hands in his.

“We’ve talked a lot about how to clear your name, but we haven’t talked very much about what’s going to happen after we do. And really, I have no idea because it’s impossible to be sure of much of anything. But the one thing I am sure of is how much I love you and how much I want to be with you.” Drake leaned over the edge of the bed to reach his jeans, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He pulled something out of the pocket and held it out to Riley. She squinted in the semi-darkness and saw a thin leather cord tied into a circle. “I know it’s not much and I promise I’ll get you something much better in the future, but just think of it as a placeholder for now.”

“A placeholder?” Riley asked, her voice barely a whisper as the realization of what was happening washed over her.

“Riley Mason, will you marry me?” Drake asked. He’d barely gotten the words out when Riley grabbed him and kissed him, tangling her fingers in his hair.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she whispered between kisses. “And don’t you dare replace that ring.”

“I kind of wish you’d been in the photo with us,” Drake said, a blush flooding his cheeks. “I mean, it’s a family photo, and you and I are . . . well, I guess there’s going to be enough time later for photos. A whole lifetime in fact.”

“Hey, this reunion was about you and your sister and getting to meet your nephew,” Riley said, trying to push away the ache in her chest.

Drake returned the photo to his back pocket before he leaned down and kissed Riley. She clung to him, pressing her lips to his with a desperate intensity while she wished that everything else would disappear and that she could live in this moment for the rest of her life.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Drake asked, studying her. “You seem off somehow.”

Riley nodded.

“It’s just been a long day,” she lied again, unable to tell him the truth. The lie was easier at the moment and it didn’t hurt as much. Riley knew she’d have to tell him sooner rather than later, but she convinced herself that “sooner” didn’t mean “now.”

“Let’s go get some dinner,” she suggested. “If we don’t go soon, Maxwell might eat everything before we get there.”

Drake rolled his eyes but he gave her one more kiss.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said. Riley followed him out of her bedroom and as she watched him walk before her, she felt tears pricking at her eyes again but she forced the feeling away. There’d be more than enough time for tears later. A lifetime’s worth without him.

[anavoliselenu]

anchor me chapter 2

“Someday we will,” Justin says as he slides his arm around my waist. “I certainly hope so.” Caroline smiles fondly at both of us. “You two would make beautiful babies.” “I can’t argue with that,” Justin adds, as he pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my temple. “Selena’s going to make an incredible mom.” I tense, my demeanor shifting from socially friendly to icily polite. This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. Not with a stranger. Not with Caroline. Not even with Justin, and I’m frustrated that he so seamlessly slid into the role of eager father. We’ve talked about this over and over, and I’d thought we were on the same page. Someday, yes, I want to hold our child in my arms. But neither of us are ready for kids yet. There are too many barriers, too many challenges. And the fact that he’s now speaking so cavalierly about something so important makes my insides twist up. Especially since I can hardly call him out while we’re standing on a lawn in Dallas and I’m so goddamn vulnerable already. Fuck. I pull out of his embrace, and when I do, Justin catches my eyes. I see the apology on his face, but I’m not in the mood. I’m too off-kilter as it is, and so I just shove my hands in the pockets of my summer skirt. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else, but then he turns his attention back to Misty and tells her that the car is unlocked. As they speak, I head toward the house with Caroline beside me. With each step, my feet feel heavier and my pulse quicker. It’s silly, I know—it’s not as if I’ll find my mother lying in wait—but I haven’t been back in this house in years, and now that I’m about to walk inside, I’m positively crackling with nerves. I want Justin beside me. I want his hand in mine. And I’m angry and hurt and pissed that just a few little words have dropped a wall between us. Angry at him. And, yes, angry at myself, too. Behind us, I hear Misty speaking to Justin. “I’ll wipe off his hands before he gets in the car. And feel free to look around as much as you want. It’s kind of a maze in there, though. We haven’t unpacked a thing.” Caroline and I pause, and I watch as Misty hurries off after Andy, who’s running as fast as his little legs will allow toward the Rolls Royce. Justin turns but hesitates before walking toward us, his expression unreadable. Then he cocks his head just slightly, and when his brows rise in inquiry, I see everything he’s not saying aloud. I’m sorry. Are we okay? The fist around my heart loosens, and I draw a breath, wait a beat, and then extend my hand. For an instant, relief flickers in his eyes. Then his expression clears, and he joins us, locking his hand with mine. Caroline looks between us, then smiles so brightly that I have to wonder if she’s picked up on the tension. Not that I’m about to ask. Instead, we continue to the house. “How many times did I walk you home when you and Ollie were little?” Caroline asks as we step onto the porch. “Or come over here to drag Ollie back home when you two spent the day in your pool?” “A lot,” I say, letting the memories distract me. The truth is that Ollie rarely came over here. When we were allowed to play together, we both preferred his house. Only in the dead of summer did we stay here to enjoy the pool, and then only after my mother had assured herself that I was covered head-to-toe with sunscreen. God forbid the beauty queen get a sunburn or freckles. “Go on, sweetie,” Caroline says. “I’ll wait for you two out here.” I nod, and when Justin squeezes my hand in silent support, I realize how clammy my palms have become. The door is already ajar, so I use my free hand to push it open. I swallow and then, before I can lose my nerve, I step over the threshold. I hesitate, not sure what I expected. Memory-shaped ghosts drifting down from the ceiling? My mother’s face looking back at me from the hall mirror? Her voice ordering me to go to my room and rest because it’s almost nine o’clock and I need my sleep before that weekend’s pageant? But there is nothing. It’s just walls. Just tile and hardwood, paint and wallpaper. I feel my body relax, and when I meet Justin’s eyes, the corner of his mouth curves up in a smile of understanding. “Where was your room?” he asks as we move through the foyer to the open-style living area. “That way.” I point to the long hallway that leads off to the right. “My mom was in the master bedroom, all the way on the other side of the house. But Ashley and I were both down here.” “Show me.” “I doubt it’s going to look anything like what it did when I was here,” I say, but I’m already heading that way. I’m right, of course. The walls are a plain, flat white where they had once been a pale pink. I’d wanted lime green. Something funky and fun and a little bit obnoxious. A counterpoint to the so-good-they’re-smarmy manners and perfectly proper clothes that had been foisted on me for my entire life. My mother, of course, had vetoed that plan, because little girls who win pageants are the kind of girls who love pink. Girls who follow the rules. Who don’t make a fuss or cause trouble. Girls who don’t have opinions of their own. At least that’s what every word out of my mother’s mouth seemed to imply. I’ve learned better since, and I know several women I respect who’ve done the pageant circuit. But back then, I had my mother in my head. And every time I won a pageant, I had to wonder what that said about me. Was I truly that boring and empty-headed? Was that really all I was good for? I remember going to Ashley, curling up among the pile of pillows on my big sister’s bed and whispering that I hated our mother. That I hated pink. That Mother was mean and I wanted my walls to be my walls and it wasn’t fair and why couldn’t I ever do anything I wanted, and on and on and on. “Do you know what she did?” I ask Justin, after I’ve told him all of that. “She came home from school the next day with a tiny jar of lime green paint she’d swiped from the high school art department.” I blink back the tears that have gathered with the memory. “She told me I needed some green, and so we painted a tiny green square right behind my bedside table, and then we took a pencil eraser and wrote our initials in the paint. It would have been right about here,” I say, leading him to the far side of the room and pointing to a pile of boxes. He bends, moves a couple of the boxes aside, and then crooks his finger for me to join him. I do, then suck in a breath when I see what he’s found. It’s been covered, but I can still clearly see the hint of a green square beneath the flat white. And in the middle—more texture than image—are the initials NF and AF. My knees go weak, and I let myself slump to the ground, Justin’s arms going around me to cushion my fall. “Thank goodness you’re here,” I murmur, my back to his chest.

“I’ll never be anywhere else.” I nod, acknowledging the simple truth that is the shining miracle of my life as I lean back against him, grateful for his warmth and strength. “I don’t want to remember,” I admit. “And yet just being here—it’s all coming back. Good. Bad. It’s crashing over me like waves. All these memories, and I don’t have the strength to stop them coming.” “Then don’t,” he says. “Let go, baby. Let the tide take you. I’ll be your tether. I’ll always pull you back home.” I squeeze my eyes shut, lost in the magic of his words. In the promise that he will always protect me. That he’ll always love me. A shiver cuts through me. Not from a chill. Not from fear. But from the simple realization that I should have known that kind of all-encompassing, unrelenting love from my mother. But I’d had to find it in my sister. In my friends. In Justin. “My mother didn’t have a clue,” I whisper. “Not even an inkling of how to be a mother.” The tears flow freely now as I recall the day I got the phone call that Ashley was dead. My mother’s flat voice that she’d killed herself. And not flat with regret or mourning, but with disapproval. As if Ashley hadn’t lived up to expectations. The irony, of course, was that it was expectations and insecurities that had killed my sister. Her deep-seated certainty that she had no clue how to be a wife. That when her husband left her for another woman, it was proof that she was a failure—just like my mother had always said. She’d killed herself because she’d believed she was nothing. But to me, Ashley had been everything. “We were sitting here when she told me she was going to get married. On the floor beside my bed. And she said she was going to have a good life and be a better mom than ours.” My words tumble out as fast as my tears. I love Ronnie and Jeffery, my niece and nephew, but Ashley’s child should have come first. I wanted so badly to be Aunt Selena. To be the very best aunt ever, just like Ashley had said. “She never got the chance.” Suddenly, the loss of my sister is like a physical pain in my chest. I turn in Justin’s arms, bury my face against his chest, and sob. I’d come to this house wanting to exorcise my demons, but now it seems like the ghosts are everywhere. I gulp in air, then try to force words out past my tear-clogged throat. “Please,” I beg. “Please, can we just get out of here?” “We’re already gone.” He kisses me gently, then takes my elbow to lead me out of the room. But I just stand there beside him for a moment, hating how weak and fragile I feel. I try to gather myself, determined to get out of this house without Caroline or Misty seeing any evidence of pain on my face. And yet I can’t manage. My knees are weak. My skin clammy. I start to take a step to the door, but the world seems to turn inside out, and me along with it. I have only enough time to look up at Justin—to see the worry etched on his face—before the grayness takes over, and I collapse into my husband’s arms. 3 “Selena!” Justin’s voice—tense, afraid—seems to wrap around me. Something tangible that, maybe, I can cling to. That I can use to pull myself back. “Sweetheart? Baby? Come on. That’s it. You can do it.” I feel the warmth of his body surrounding me. Cradling me. His words are soft with encouragement, but the gentleness only hides an undercurrent of fear. I imagine his face in front of me, coming in and out of shadows. Then I realize that it’s not my imagination. Instead, my eyelids are fluttering open, my body trying to return to normal even though my mind is still lost in this odd netherworld where time seems so painfully slow and Justin’s arms so deliciously warm. “That’s it, baby. You’re going to be fine.” I see the worry that tightens the lines around his mouth. That sharpens the amber of one eye and transforms the onyx depths of the other into a hopeless abyss. Then he turns to speak to someone else, his voice low and strained. “Where the hell is the damned ambulance?” “On its way. I think I can hear the siren.” Caroline stands behind him. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s twisting her hands. Farther back, Misty clings to her little boy, her expression pinched, and I wonder if she is concerned about me or about what her new neighbors will think. I hear the approach of sirens, too, and despite the summer heat, my skin prickles from the ice water that suddenly floods my veins, the chill pushing me all the way into consciousness. With a vague sense of wonder, I realize we’re back on the front lawn. But I have no idea how we got here. “What happened?” My voice is raspy, but it’s enough to send relief washing over the three faces around me. Carolyn steps forward, and though she puts her hand on Justin’s shoulder, her eyes are on me. “Selena, sweetie, it’s going to be okay. It’s probably just the heat. Nothing to worry about at all.” I try to push myself more upright. It’s harder than it should be—I’m light-headed and unsteady—and when I see fresh worry on Justin’s face, I stop trying and simply let him hold me. “I fainted?” Of course, I did, but the thought is so startling that I can’t help but state the obvious as a question. “You scared the crap out of me,” he says. “I’m okay now.” I speak firmly, as if saying the words will make them true. Then I try to shift to my knees so that I can push myself all the way up to standing, but Justin holds me down. “No, you don’t.” He holds me firmly in place. “Sit and rest until the ambulance gets here.” I grimace at the thought of being examined here on Misty’s landscaped front lawn. “Honestly, it’s not like I got bit by a rattlesnake or suddenly came down with Ebola. I just got light-headed. It’s no big deal.” “It is to me,” he says, and with those simple words, my argument dies on my tongue. I’m fine—I know that I’m fine—but Justin needs the reassurance, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fully erase the fear from his eyes. Unfortunately, after being poked and prodded and monitored by two efficient paramedics, we don’t have a definitive explanation for my fainting spell, and worry still lines Justin’s face. The only upside is that they don’t insist that I go to the hospital, but they do want me to see my own doctor soon, as my blood pressure is low enough for concern. Justin thanks them, then starts to type something out on his phone as I watch them pack up and return to the ambulance. They pass Misty, who has moved to the driveway and is talking with three curious neighbors and, probably, cursing the moment Justin and I darkened her doorstep.

“Do you want some juice?” Caroline asks. “I bet Misty has a cooler of juice boxes. Or I can run to the market.” “No, really, it’s fine. But thank you. I think you’re right. I’m not used to the heat anymore.” This time when I start to get up, Justin helps me, his phone now back in his pocket. “I’ll go see my doctor when we get home just to be sure,” I add, certain that Justin just sent a text to his assistant, asking that she schedule that very appointment for the second we return to LA. “Actually, we’re going now,” Justin says. “There’s a walk-in clinic just a few miles from here.” I, however, am done being Invalid Selena. “The hell we are. I’m standing. I’m walking. See?” I circle him to prove my point as Caroline graciously moves toward Misty, obviously wanting to avoid getting caught up in a marital power struggle. “I probably just need food and air conditioning. So let’s go get some lunch and then head back to the hotel so I can work on tomorrow’s presentation.” “After the clinic. No—” he continues, cutting off my protest. “I want to make sure you’re okay.” “Dammit, I am. I was just light-headed. How many times do I have to say it?” “You were out cold for a full minute, baby. You didn’t even stir when I carried you out here.” “But I’m awake now.” I force myself to take a mental step back. To breathe. I don’t like doctors. I never have. My memories of doctors are tied up with my mother’s ploys to get me prescription appetite suppressants because “she’s such a pretty girl, but her hips and thighs have a tendency toward chubby,” or my own attempts to hide my self-inflicted scars, always fearing that some doctor would notice and insist I see a shrink. “How about a compromise?” I suggest. “Hotel now, but if I start to feel dizzy, we’ll go to the clinic.” For a moment, he says nothing, and I imagine the debate raging in his head. His desire to please me versus his concern and his need for answers. Finally, though, he nods. “All right, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, using my maiden name as a term of endearment. “It looks like we have a deal.” I return the smile, feeling smug. Then I take a step toward Caroline and Misty, intending to say goodbye. And that’s when my smugness vanishes. That’s when the nausea consumes me. That’s when I bend forward in a sudden, unexpected spasm and vomit all over Misty’s pristinely manicured lawn. 4 “Considering I’m not sick, I’m certainly being pampered.” We’re back from the clinic Justin dragged me to, and now I’m curled up on our hotel suite’s overstuffed sofa, my feet in his lap. It’s barely past noon, but the curtains are closed, and the lamps are dim, and the ambience is making me sleepy. He chuckles, then squeezes my big toe. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be pampering my wife?” “Actually, that was more of an ‘I told you so’ sort of comment.” I conjure a victorious grin. “The pampering is my reward for being right.” He presses his thumbs against the bottom of my foot in a way that has me arching back and moaning with pleasure. “I’m always happy to reward you,” he assures me. “But your prognosis is still an open question.” “I’m fine,” I insist because I refuse to believe that anything is wrong. “The doctor said what I said—everybody gets lightheaded sometimes.” “And I get worried sometimes.” He stands, shifting my feet onto the cushion as he does. Then he sits again on the edge of the sofa right beside me, his palm on my cheek. Slowly, he leans in, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips. A soft tremor runs through me, and I curve my hand around the back of his neck, prepared to pull him down for a deeper, more enthusiastic kiss. “You don’t need to worry,” I whisper. “I promise I’ll stop when he calls with the results of the blood work.” I hesitate, my building desire warring with a lingering frustration, and I let my fingers fall away as I exhale sharply. Justin sits up, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I say automatically. But my pleasant mood has disintegrated, and I continue, “I don’t like being under a microscope. But you’re determined to keep pushing it.” I shift to sit up, and in the process, give him a small shove. He looks at me with concern, his brow furrowed, and that only sparks my growing foul mood. “I just want to sit up,” I snap. He stands. “By all means, sit however you like.” I know I’m being bitchy, so I open my mouth to apologize, but that’s not what comes out. “You’re annoyed because of how I’m sitting?” My stomach twists unpleasantly. We fight—we’re married, of course, we fight—but usually there’s a reason. This one is all on me. I’m a mess, and I know it. My emotions have been all over the place today, and now something hard and hot is rising inside me, and it seems that I can’t control my temper, much less my words. Justin drags his fingers through his hair, his expression a mix of both compassion and frustration. “Baby, I’m sorry. This town. Your mom. Getting sick. You have every right to feel off.” “I’m not sick—I mean, come on, Justin, are you even listening to me?” Now it’s my turn to stand. I tell myself I should leave, because everything inside me is churning. I’m touchy and emotional, and I know that no matter what he says, it’s going to be the wrong thing, and that’s never how I feelwith Justin. Which means he’s right, of course. This is because of my mom. Because of Dallas. And because I fainted and then vomited all over the lawn of a perfect stranger. Just the memory makes me want to curl up and hide. “You put me on display,” I accuse. “Calling an ambulance just for a fainting spell? The whole neighborhood came out to stare.” “Christ, Selena. You passed out. I was fucking terrified. I wasn’t concerned with being subtle.” “You weren’t subtle at all.” I choke a little, then blink furiously to hold back the tears. “What the hell happened to the Justin Stark who holds his private life close to the vest?” He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I meet his gaze, but hug myself, readying for the onslaught of accusations. That I’m overly emotional. That I’m tired. That I’m stressed. That I’m a complete emotional wreck because of this town, and maybe I should think about only competing for contracts that send me to cities that aren’t Dallas. Better yet, that aren’t in Texas. He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he moves closer. He doesn’t touch me, however, and as we stand there, only inches apart, I realize that I am longing for him to do just that. I want him to enfold me in his arms. I want to cling to him until the world turns right again. Until I turn right again. But all he does is watch me. Then he says, “This isn’t about fainting. It’s not about being sick.”

“It’s not? Well, then by all means, tell me what it is that’s upset me since you know me so much better than I know myself.” “It’s about what I said to Caroline. About having kids someday.” I take an involuntary step backward. Because he’s right. I hadn’t realized it until he said it, but he’s absolutely right. We’ve talked about kids a lot recently. We had the conversation before we got married, of course, and again more recently. And we’ve always been in agreement that we want to wait. That he’s too busy being a master of the universe and I’m working long hours to get my own business off the ground. And on top of all of that, neither of us have good role models for how to be a parent. We’d agreed that we needed time. For ourselves. To get our lives in order. To get my business rolling. But lately, I can’t help but wonder if the expression of joy I see on Justin’s face when he plays with our niece and nephew doesn’t also have an element of longing. If he regrets waiting and wants to start a family of our own, just like Sylvia and Jackson have. “Someday,” Justin repeats, apparently following the breadcrumbs of my thoughts. “That’s all I said to Caroline. Not today. Not next week. But someday.” He takes my hands. “That’s true, isn’t it?” I swallow, wishing I could read his mind as well as he always seems to be able to read mine. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s not private.” Something hard flashes in his eyes, and for an instant, I think that I’ve pissed him off. But then he curses softly and shakes his head, his expression as warm as I’ve ever seen it. “You’re right,” he says, and I realize it’s not me he’s angry with; it’s himself. “Goddammit, you’re absolutely right. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.” His apology is like a ladder by which I can climb out of my deep, black hole. “Really.” I draw a breath, realizing I’m no longer itching for a fight. That, somehow, he has smoothed my rough edges. “I just . . . I didn’t expect it. I mean, we don’t know Misty. And even though Ollie’s mom’s like family—” “I get it,” he says, leading me back to the couch. “You’re right. And I love you. And I’m sorry.” He sits again, then pulls me down next to him. I sigh, reveling in the easy way his arm goes around me. The comfortable rhythm of being curled up against him. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “You’re right about my mom and all the rest. It put me in a really crappy mood.” “I’d be surprised if it didn’t. So here’s the question I have for you.” His voice is so serious, I shift in his arms so that I can see his face more clearly. “Comedy or drama, movie or television?” I shake my head, amused. “Don’t you have to review some spreadsheets before your call about that production facility?” Justin wasn’t planning to work this weekend, but the construction manager of one of his foreign plants called right before we left Los Angeles. There’s some sort of crisis that needs to be dealt with first thing Monday, local time. With the time difference, that means Sunday afternoon in Texas. “And aren’t I supposed to be prepping for my meeting tomorrow?” “My call’s not for another two hours,” he says. “And if you do any more prep work, your head’s going to explode.” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues on. “Take a break. Chill with your husband. We’ll have a late lunch, and you can spend all evening going over your notes. Sound like a plan?” “So long as I don’t have to pick what we watch.” I yawn as I snuggle close, certain he’ll choose something amazing because he always does. And, in fact, I enjoy the first hour or so of Audrey Hepburn’s and Cary Grant’s shenanigans in Charade. I can’t speak to the rest of the movie, though, because the next thing I know, I’m prone on the sofa, disoriented as I wake from an unexpected nap. Justin’s voice drifts back from the bedroom area, and the television is off. I reach for my phone to check the time and notice that Justin’s notes are no longer on the coffee table. Which explains why I hear him talking to someone—he must be on his conference call. I sit up and stretch, fighting both frustration and worry. It’s far too early for me to be this tired, and yet I’ve been dragging for over a week now. Even before we left LA, it was often all I could do to focus on my computer screen at work, and coding often felt like slogging through a pudding-filled swamp. I would load up on coffee, but I think I’ve finally OD’d on my favorite pick-me-up, because lately even the thought of downing a cup leaves me vaguely queasy. In other words, I’m off my game, and that’s both frustrating and a little nerve-wracking. I’m hardly ever sick, but what if this time there really is something wrong with me? I’d told Justin I was fine, but that was more because I wanted it to be true, not because I’m certain. A walk-in clinic wouldn’t make me hang around for something like cancer. They’d let me go home, call with the bad news, and tell me to make an immediate appointment with a doctor in LA. I stand, propelled off the couch by the warring forces within me. One side telling me to stop worrying, that everything I told Justin about me being fine is absolutely true. The other side arguing that I’ve felt off for weeks, and that, obviously, something is wrong, and I shouldn’t have been so snippy with Justin since he’s obviously right. I scowl at my phone, not sure if I want it to ring so that I get the bad news, or stay silent so that I can hold onto the fantasy that all is well for just a bit longer. Then again, maybe I should toss the thing off the hotel balcony, because clearly I’m turning into a raging hypochondriac, and that really can’t be good. Since none of the options sound appealing, I’m about to head into the kitchen to scope out the mini-bar. At home, I have an emergency stash of frozen Milky Ways, but I’d be happy for even the thawed kind at the moment. I don’t even get one step before my phone vibrates on the table, signaling an incoming call. I snatch it up, then sag onto the couch when I hear Dr. Cray’s voice asking for me. “This is Selena,” I say. “Am I—I mean, is there something wrong with me? Am I sick?” “Actually, Mrs. Stark, you’re quite healthy.” I draw a deep, grateful breath, then immediately frown. “Are you sure? The dizziness. And I’ve been so tired lately. Nauseous, too.” “Your dizziness was caused by the rapid drop in blood pressure, as I—” “Exactly,” I say. “But why’s my blood pressure off? Please. If something’s wrong, just tell me and get it over with.” “Slow down. All the symptoms you’ve reported are perfectly normal.”

I shake my head. “No. No, they’re not. Believe me, Dr. Cray, I know how I usually feel, and this isn’t right. I’m not someone who falls asleep in front of the television before nine o’clock, much less just after noon. And dizziness? That’s just weird. Trust me, this isn’t normal. I’ve never felt like this before.” “I imagine that’s because you haven’t been pregnant before.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Congratulations, Mrs. Stark. You’re going to have a baby.” 5 You’re going to have a baby. Dr. Cray’s words fill my head, random sounds that I can’t quite process and that leave me shaky and confused. I reach for the arm of the couch and hold on, trying to steady myself. “A baby?” The word feels thick on my tongue. Heavy and unfamiliar. “But that can’t be right. I can’t be pregnant. I’m on the pill.” I’ve been on birth control since I was fourteen and got slammed with debilitating cramps. “I’m sure you know that not every form of birth control is one hundred percent effective. You’re walking proof of that now, Mrs. Stark, because I assure you that pill or not, you are definitely pregnant.” “How far along am I?” “Nine, maybe ten weeks based on the level of HCG in your blood.” “HG—what?” “A hormone. After an ultrasound, your OB can give you a better idea of how far along you are. Since you gave permission, I spoke with your family doctor, and he’s set you up with an obstetricsappointment next Monday.” I blink and nod, trying to process that information. I’m pretty sure that’s not the way it usually works, and I can only assume that Justin’s clout is behind this elevated level of medical service. “Um. Okay. Who—” “His nurse is going to email you all the information. In the meantime . . .” He continues to talk, but it’s all just noise. Pregnant? How can I be pregnant? I try to think back to my last period, but the truth is, I’ve never paid much attention. I’ve always just dealt with it when it showed up. Now I wish I’d tracked the days religiously. Pregnant. That word rattles around in my head some more. I’m really going to have a baby? How can that be? I can’t be a mother. I mean, I don’t have the slightest clue how to be a mother. “Mrs. Stark?” Dr. Cray’s voice breaks through the chatter in my head. “I understand this is a surprise. Do you have any more questions for me?” “I—” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “No. No, thank you.” We end the call, and I toss my phone on the couch, then just stand there staring at the cushion as I take deep breaths and try to wrap my head around this unwieldy new reality. “Selena.” Justin’s voice is soft, barely audible, but it’s strong, and I cling to that as I lift my head and turn to face him. He’s standing in the doorway between the living area and the hall to the suite’s three bedrooms. There’s no expression on his face at all, and I have no idea how long he’s been there, or how much he heard. “What’s going on? Was that the clinic?” He takes a step toward me, and I see the worry break through the mask of control. “Are you okay?” Am I? I honestly don’t know. But all I say is, “I’m pregnant.” For a moment, he remains completely still, his eyes unreadable. Then a wild joy colors his face as he takes a step toward me. “A baby,” he says, his voice filled with awe and wonder. Another step, then another, until he is right in front of me. I expect him to pull me into a hug. To kiss my face, my mouth. To hold me so tightly in his embrace that there’s no room for fear or doubt. But he does none of that. Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me and presses a kiss to my belly. His shoulders rise and fall as he draws in deep breaths, obviously trying to control himself. For a moment, he simply clings to me. Then he tilts his head back to look at me. “A baby? Really?” His voice is so thick with emotion that it chips away at the numbness that has overwhelmed me. “We’re seriously having a baby?” I manipulate my lips up into a smile. “Looks that way.” I congratulate myself on sounding normal, because the truth is that I don’t feel normal at all. Instead, I’m nervous and stressed and twitchy, and I hate it. Because I should be basking. I should be lost in Justin’s arms, lost in this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Instead, I’m numb. Instead, I’m terrified. “Selena?” “It’s okay.” Hot tears pool in my eyes. “Really, I’m—” That’s as much as I get out before the sob escapes and fat tears trail down my cheeks. I’m not even tethered to the earth right now. I’m just a wash of jumbled emotions, twisting so fast I can’t even process them. Shock. Joy. Fear. Excitement. Surprise. Terror. Happiness. All battering against me, leaving me overwhelmed and numb and not at all certain that this can really be happening. “Sweetheart. Oh, Selena, sweetheart.” Justin is on his feet in an instant, and he pulls me close and strokes my hair. “Hey, hey, talk to me.” I want to—dear God, I want to—but my words are trapped behind a curtain of tears. I gasp, trying to relax as Justin rubs my back, making soothing noises. “I—I’m sorry,” I manage. “It’s just—I don’t know. Hormones, maybe. I’m a mess.” “Sweetheart.” The word is cut short by his kiss. So soft and gentle, I think I might melt. And when he finally pulls back, his expression is so tender it almost brings me to tears all over again. He takes a seat on the couch, then settles me on his lap. I snuggle close, craving his strength and the safety of his arms. I want him to hold me tight. I want him to strip me naked. To touch and to tease. I want him to make love to me. More than anything, I want to bury the quagmire of thoughts and fears dancing in my head under a blanket of passion. “I love you,” he says, and only when he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away a tear do I realize that I’ve started crying again. “I’m okay,” I say, sniffling. “Damn hormones.” I’m still wearing the skirt I’d put on this morning, and he strokes his fingertips lightly over my bare leg, then brushes his lips over my shoulder. I shiver, craving a much more intimate touch and the oblivion that I know surrendering will bring. Except I don’t really want oblivion. I don’t want to hide. Not from Justin—never from Justin. And yet there is no denying that I’m doing exactly that. I’m closing off. Curling in on myself. It’s not a celebration I want, but escape, and I hate that my traitorous emotions are destroying what should be a moment of romance and joy. I swallow, then push off his lap. “Bathroom,” I say, then rush across the suite to the master bath. I close the door, sit on the edge of the Olympic-size tub, and just breathe. A moment later, Justin comes in. I lift my head, blinking as I look at him through tear-filled eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.