Page 6 of Life

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what the babies are. Boys or girls.”

Gigi frowns and nibbles her lip. “What if it’s one of each?”

One of each. Yes. That’s it! “That’s it exactly. You’re going to have one boy and one girl! Oh, what fun!”

Her hands come up to her cheeks as they turn a rosy hue. “You think? Really?”

“Never been wrong.” I tap her nose. “Never. You’re having one of each.”

Chase comes back into the room holding a glass of ice water for Gillian and a fresh margarita for me. Yum. I reach out a greedy hand and open and close my fingers until he gives over the tequila goodness.

Gillian rushes over to him. “Baby, guess what? We’re having a boy and a girl!” she says, and kisses him hard on the mouth.

He kisses her back, wrapping his free hand around her waist. When she pulls away, he nuzzles her cheek. “How do you know? The book says we won’t find out until the twenty-week sonogram.”

Of course, possessive Chase Davis would have already read the book on his babies. He probably knows more about Gillian’s pregnancy than she does at this point.

“I have a sixth sense about these things. Never been wrong. Ever,” I offer.

“One of each, eh? Sounds great to me.” He pecks Gillian again and then walks over to the sideboard to refill his whiskey. “I’ll drink to that.”

He holds up his tumbler, and I lift mine.

“Me too!”

“Me three!” Gillian claps and chimes in.

Atiny pinprickof pain nudges its way into my temple. The nudge quickly turns into an ant-sized man jackhammering against my entire frontal lobe as I attempt to open my eyes. The room is a cheery white with yellow accents. The bed is so soft, I’m sure the big man upstairs himself fashioned it on the eighth day after creating the Earth because he needed a good night’s sleep. Only he forgot to mention not to drink one’s weight in tequila before bed.

Good Lord, haven’t you tortured me enough?I rub at the sides of my head, digging my knuckles into the sore spots. My stomach rolls and rumbles, and I’m not sure if it’s the hangover or the need for food. Either way, I need a truckload of grease in my gut in order for it to stop feeling like death warmed over. I push up to a sitting position and shove my wild mane out of my eyes. The black locks tumble and fall to tickle against my lower back.

With great care, I ease out of bed, touching the ground with one toe, and then the ball, and then the heel of my foot. I sway for a few steps and finally catch my balance against the door. A silk robe hangs on the back. Gigi must have left it for me. As it was, I only got as far as my sports bra and a pair of her small cotton shorts before plummeting onto the cloud. Besides, Chase has seen me dance in less, so I don’t bother putting on my funeral garb. Hell, I may burn that jumper, even though it looked killer on me. Now, I’ll remember the last place I wore it and fall into a haze of grief all over again. As it is, I’m at risk for a spill as I walk on shaky feet.

I make it to the bathroom where I do my business and brush my teeth. Thank you, Chase’s maid, for leaving extra toothbrushes and toothpaste for guests. I ruffle my hand through my hair, trying to work out the knots. One hand is in my hair, the other holding my forehead, when I make my way into the ginormous kitchen and stop dead in my tracks.

Sitting happily at the table are Gillian, who’s already dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, and Chase, dressed in his golf-outing finest, with an eyebrow cocked and lips pursed. Them I expected. What I didn’t plan for was staring into the eyes of Tommy’s brother, Elijah, first thing in the morning. The day after the funeral.

“Did I sleep for a week and not know it?” I groan while leaning against the doorjamb. My robe is open, and I can’t be bothered to care.

Elijah’s eyes trace my form from bare toes to the tip of my hair and back down. “Jesus,” he mumbles into his coffee cup and looks away.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying not to sound irritated and failing miserably.

He tips his head to the side and sets down his mug. A plate of half-eaten food is in front of him. “I was invited. Good morning, Spicy.”

Spicy.What the…

“She always like this in the morning?” he asks Chase.

Chase shrugs. “Don’t know. Underdressed? Yes.” I glare in his direction and cross my arms and cock a hip. “Hungover? No, not usually. Yesterday was understandably a rough day for her. For us all.”

Bentley the chef hands me a cup of coffee. “Ms. De La Torre. With a hint of cinnamon, heavy cream, as you like it.”

I smile. “Bentley, you are too good to me. First the margaritas, and now the perfect coffee? Marry me.” I wink.

The rotund little man’s cheeks turn a bright cherry red as he scurries away.

“Back to you. I may have had a lot to drink last night, but when I went to bed, you were not here.” I pull out a chair, and both men stand briefly until I sit down. Interesting.

---