Page 30 of The Bartender's Baby

“Yeah, imagine,” I teased, but instead of the laugh I thought I’d get in return, Nate’s eyes filled with something I couldn’t read, though it sent goose bumps down my arms.

He hummed thoughtfully and reached for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. He brought them to his mouth, his lips brushing along the back of my hand when he said, “I can.”

I didn’t dare to hope.

After these last few weeks when everything felt so precarious, I couldn’t hope.

Every choice I made from here on out would affect the rest of my life and the life of the person growing inside me. I couldn’t bear to make the wrong decision. Or, worse, hang my hat on something that wasn’t real.

When Nate parked the van back in its spot, I excused myself to use the restroom. I needed a few minutes to remember who I was and what I was doing before going back out, determined to buy the car I wanted without getting lost in the scheme Nate had invented.

Except, by the time I met them, Nate and Matt were shaking hands. As if the deal was done.

What the fuck?

I stormed up to them, intent on tearing into Nate, but he caught me around the waist. “You’ll be happy.”

Matt motioned to the two of us. “I know how hard it is starting a family.”

“And he offered us a very generous deal,” Nate finished.

“I knocked two thousand off the sticker price and took care of the taxes and tags. We’ll also be putting new tires on the RAV as well.”

For the third time today, I couldn’t speak. He’d done it. Nate’s dumb plan worked. “Wow. Thank you,” I choked out. “Thank you so much.”

“Your husband tells me this will be your car? We can sit down and get all the paperwork taken care of. Do you need a snack or anything?”

“No, I’m?—”

“I see a little table of snacks over there. Is that for customers?” Nate asked, steering me toward Matt’s desk.

Matt nodded. “Help yourself.”

Once I was seated, Nate peeled off and returned a few moments later with a pack of Goldfish. And that’s how I signed on the dotted line, with Nate smiling down at me, opening a packet of kids snacks.

Son of a bitch.

I had a problem.

Because hope had taken root deep in my chest, already threatening to bloom through every part of me.

EIGHT

TABBY

February sailed into March with a new pattern for my life. I’d go to school, eat my food still being delivered via Nate’s grocery order that I’d pretend didn’t please me exceedingly, then I would ignore how his gaze constantly tracked me at work. How he had me take more and longer breaks and wasalwayspresent. He hadn’t been like that before. He owned Walt’s and often showed up, but he let me run the bar. Now, heneverlet me work alone.

Never let me feel alone.

And that dangerous hope grew like wild flowers.

Especially when he had “his guy” come to take care of the mice situation. Unfortunately, I’d spotted some of the traps he’d set out—their job done well—and I’d spent a few nights tossing and turning. The evidence of my fatigue had shown, and Nate had known something was wrong. He’d, of course, bugged me about it all night until I confessed that I’d felt tiny little claws creeping over my arms and legs the previous few nights.

That was when the links to rentals started appearing, along with daily morning check-in texts.

The last time I’d felt so cared for was when my dad was still alive. When I’d had someone to take on the world for me.

So, it was Nate I called when I couldn’t calm down now. I’d woken up in a cold sweat this morning, knowing what I faced today, and hoped a shower would help. When it didn’t, I tried some ginger ale and crackers, but my hands trembled so bad, I could barely hold on to the drink.

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