Page 69 of Tell Me No Lies

“Oh, honey.” Nancy gives me a pitying look. “You’ve got the pukes, don’t you?”

I take in a slow breath, carefully blowing it back out. “Little bit.”

“I had them too.” She drapes one arm over my shoulders, turning me toward the front of the shop. “Threw up all damn day long.”

“Not just in the morning?” Part of me was still hoping car sickness was responsible for a little of my suffering, and this misery would be more confined moving forward. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I end up feeling like this all day. I’ll likely end up a raging bitch.

A more raging bitch.

“Nope. All day and all night.” She leads me toward Tate’s office. “Couldn’t keep a thing down for the first twelve weeks.”

Twelve weeks?

I’m swallowing hard as we make our way down the hall, and it’s only partly because of the saliva collecting in my mouth. I won’t survive twelve weeks of this.

No one will survive twelve weeks of this.

“Oh, shit.” For a second I think Nancy’s realized she’s offering up too much information, but then I notice her eyes are locked on the antsy looking crowd hovering around the front desk. “How many cars can break down at one time?” She sighs loudly, lifting her voice as she says, “I’m coming.” Before going to handle the line, she urges me into Tate’s office. “Go sit down and relax. I’ve got this.”

I’m not going to argue with her. I wish I could, I know what it’s like when the desk gets that crazy, but I would be little to no help right now. I might even make things worse by arfing up the crackers and ginger ale in my stomach all over the work orders.

Dropping into Tate’s chair, I lay my face against the cool surface of his desk. I smile in spite of my clammy skin because sitting here is like coming full circle.

Or maybe more like being back at the scene of a crime.

I’m not an idiot. I know where babies come from. I’ve always been careful not to do anything that might result in one creeping up. But Tate has always scrambled my brain. Made me so wound up, all my common sense left the building.

Common sense is overrated anyway.

If I’d held onto my common sense, I wouldn’t have finally put the fear holding me back to bed. I wouldn’t have even considered letting myself want someone the way I want him. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here smiling at the thought of Tate with a baby—our baby—in his arms.

But there’s not an ounce of hesitation in me. Not a hint of worry. I’m not afraid or even the smallest bit concerned. That could be because nausea is taking up all the free space in my body, but I don’t think so.

I think it’s because Tate showed me what can happen when two messy people go crazy over each other, and it’s pretty fucking amazing.

It would be even more amazing if I wasn’t feeling like death warmed up in a spaghetti-stained leftovers container. I need some fucking crackers. And I need Tate to rub my back and tell me how much he wishes he could be the one suffering instead of me.

I’ve barely been waiting in his office two minutes and I’m already tired of being without him. And I’m sure he’s feeling the same way. Especially now that he has confirmation I’m carrying a little reminder of our sneaky office sex in my uterus.

Nancy is still swamped when I come out and I consider going to help her for about half a second, then decide I need crackers and Tate more than she needs my half-assed attempt at helping.

Everyone is back at work when I reach the shop, so I make a quick round, expecting to find him. He can’t have gone far. I saw him right before Nancy noticed I was starting to get throw-uppy, so I know he’s here somewhere.

And if I know Tate, and I do, then I think I might have an idea where he went.

When I reach the back door, I pause, listening as a rhythmic sound bleeds through the steel. There’s a car alarm going off somewhere. Tate’s going to be pissed if someone tried to get in one of the cars waiting for service. It happens on occasion. Normally it’s kids trying to clear out the spare change and steal cigarettes.

I step to the closest workstation and grab the biggest wrench I see just in case he’s not out there and I cross paths with a delinquent. I’m not sure I could hit a kid with it, but I’m pretty good at looking crazy, so hopefully I can scare the shit out of them and send them running.

I’ve got the wrench gripped in my hand, swinging at my side as I step out into the warm air. The alarm is closer than I expected, and it throws me off. I peer down the row of vehicles parked in the back lot, trying to identify which one it might be. When I finally see the flashing headlights, my stomach drops.

It’s Tate’s Jeep.

Now I’m not worried about him being pissed because I’m pissed, and Tate’s fury is nothing compared to mine. I’ve left a lot of my baggage behind me, but I’ve kept the crazy close. It’s always served me well, and this moment will be no exception.

Adjusting my grip on the wrench, I slowly make my way toward where his SUV is parked, leaning to peek around the extended-cab pickup blocking most of my view. I suck in a breath when the gouged front panel comes into view.

Motherfuckers.

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