Page 1 of Hot Life

twelve weeks pregnant

BABY IS THE SIZE OF MY FIST WHEN I WANT TO PUNCH MY HUSBAND

The vibration in my hands shook through my bones as I looked to my husband and begged. “Please let me do it just once.” He placed a firm palm over mine as I clutched the rumbling tool.

“Absolutely not, Dot.”

I shut it off with a groan. “It’s harmless, Cedric. I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

“There’s compelling research that outdoor chores and the soil involved can have a detrimental effect on the developing fetus. After the baby’s born you can mow the grass as often as you like.”

I narrowed my eyes up at my silver fox. Ced was sporting a white T-shirt and loose grey sweatpants that made my mouth water. The grass had inched up across our sprawling yard at our home in Covington, Georgia. It was a rare morning where I awoke without the feeling of nausea and tiredness, and I wanted to do something, anything, other than lie in bed. I kicked at a twig and stepped away when his grip tugged my wrist. “Why don’t you sit in the sun, soak in some vitamin D, and read…What is it again? The Horse Shifter?”

A smile tugged at my lips as I kissed Cedric’s grey, stubbled cheek. He needed a shave. “It’s a horse shifter reverse harem and it’s called Mounting the Mare. And for your information, it’s quite good.”

“Oh, I have no doubt. I want to hear all about it after I mow this grass and my wife properly hydrates. You’ve had only sixteen ounces of water today, Dot. You need at least—”

Reaching around him, I flipped the switch of the push mower and the engine roared back to life, drowning out his over-tending. Cedric cast me an exasperated look while I turned on my heel and marched to a lawn chair in the shade. With a sigh, I kicked off my sandals and wiggled my toes in the lush earth. Hazardous soil be damned. Since returning home from his travel surgeries, Cedric, my husband of almost six years, hadn’t left my side. It had been weeks of his careful attention and rattling off more gestation information than I cared to know. At first it was cute…After six weeks, it was growing old, and I was finding myself racked with guilt that I felt eager for him to get back to work, if only for him to have people to doctor other than me. The grumble of a motorcycle competed with the dull roar of the lawnmower.

A few moments later, something flicked the bill of my baseball hat and I turned around in annoyance. “Nice hat,” Desmond drawled, crossing his muscular arms.

Readjusting it and tightening my ponytail underneath, I held my chin high. “Thanks, stole it from some guy.”

“Some guy, huh?”

“Just some random I hooked up with a couple years ago.” I shrugged.

Suddenly I yelped as I was lifted with ease as Des took my seat and settled me into his lap. “Couple years ago? More like a couple night ago, Queen.”

I nuzzled my other husband’s neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent of pine and leather. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, brightly-colored bag and my tastebuds tingled. “I think this is over my allotted thirty grams of sugar a day.”

“Our secret,” Des replied, placing a soft kiss on my neck. “How’s my little slugger?” He asked, tracing sweet circles over my soft belly.

“Oh,” I replied, tossing back a handful of colorful chocolate candies. “Fine, I guess.”

“You excited for this afternoon?”

Excitement was not the word I’d use. Not even close. But I nodded all the same. “Can I drive us in my car?”

Des snorted. He hated my hot pink Porsche. “I’ll follow behind on my Harley.”

“You rode in it with me back in Seattle,” I teased.

His answering look was devilish and sexy. “That’s when I was trying to get in your pants. Now I know you’re a sure thing.” He gave my hips a playful squeeze.

I planted a firm punch on his shoulder. “Barbarian,” I jabbed.

Des chuckled in amusement. “I never claimed to be anything less.”

I wasn’t expecting to get pregnant. After months of my IUD being removed, and my husbands and I frequently having sex, I thought maybe I couldn’t get pregnant. A part of me was sad at that idea. I wanted a baby and a family. Then at the exact same time, a small selfish part of me felt…relief. No baby. No change, no disruption to our unconventional pod. Everything could stay the same. I felt at peace with that.

And then I missed my period on my honeymoon.

Desmond rushed to a convenience store in Germany and plopped a blue box on the small round table in our bed and breakfast. “My German is rusty, but this is either a pregnancy test or a drug test. We’ll find out what you’ve been up to either way.” Of course I pinched him in the ribs for that comment.

I remember giggling in shock when two pink lines appeared. The universal language for knocked up. The same in every country. And then, like a steady pulling back of the tide, my elation dimmed into something else. Some little puffer fish of, when deflated, hesitance. But the puffer fish when inflated? Straight up resentment. And that weighed my shoulders with guilt. Weren’t most women ecstatic to be pregnant? And I wanted it; I wanted a baby…but somehow…something was off.

I shoved off Desmond’s lap and he pinched my ass. After swatting his hand, I padded inside while the murmur of my husbands’ thrilling landscaping discussions faded behind me. Lawn care had become their second wife, well, third, if we’re throwing sports into the mix. An audible groan escaped my lips at the blessed air conditioning that greeted me in the kitchen. Caroline, my sister’s wife, had left a glass decanter of fresh squeezed lemonade in the fridge and I could have kissed her for it. She was a chef and had kept me well fed even through my first trimester food aversions. Odette and Caroline had quickly become one of the top Atlanta caterers and party planners. Which was great and I was happy for them. But it also took them away most every weekend, especially with wedding season being in full bloom. Caroline was nice enough to keep our huge, industrial-sized refrigerator stocked with whatever meal I could tolerate that week. One would think in a house of two husbands and your sister and her wife, and the yapping dogs, I wouldn’t get lonely. Maybe my hormones were messing with my emotions, but if anyone was gone, I missed them desperately.

---