Page 439 of The Winslow Brothers

“Mrs. Allistair,” I call, hoping she’s not scuffing the floors. “Would you mind removing your heels as a courtesy to the sellers?”

“I mind,” she says simply, disappearing deeper and deeper into the apartment.

A pain shoots from my lower back and stretches across my belly, and it’s all I can do not to scream. Evidently, even the fetus inside me can feel the effects of snobby people.

Once the discomfort passes, I sigh and do the only thing I can do—follow Mrs. Allistair around this large apartment as she scrutinizes every nook and cranny.

Please, let this showing go quick.

Thirty minutes later and Mrs. Allistair has walked through every room, outwardly commented on anything that annoys her, and has remained unreadable on whether she even likes this apartment.

Normally, I’d do my best to coax her into a conversation that would help me figure out where her head is at with this place, but I’m too damn exhausted and uncomfortable to care. Completely unlike me, but I blame it on the heat and tiny human that appears to be throwing a party inside my uterus.

“I’ll be in touch, Maria,” Mrs. Allistair eventually says, but her attention is completely invested in the screen of her phone. Without another word, she walks out the front door of the apartment and departs with a short wave over her shoulder and a murmured “Ta!”

My stomach tightens, and a pain shoots from the back of my hip and finds a home inside my pelvic bone.Goodness gracious.I breathe through my mouth until the door shuts behind my client and then find the only relief I can by bending over to lean into the wall.

I don’t know if it’s the heat or the weight of my stomach or what, but God, these pains are becoming a real nuisance. Of course, since my due date isn’t for another two days, I know they’re probably what Dr. Maddox calls Braxton-Hicks—akafakecontractions. Nothing more than my body practicing going into labor.

At this rate, my uterus must be training for Olympic gold.

Since I have another showing in half an hour and it’s located two blocks away, I try not to dillydally closing up the apartment.Or, you know, standing here dealing with these stupid fake contractions.

Once the pain eases a little, I stand back up straight and make my way through the three-thousand-square-foot apartment, shutting off lights and ensuring nothing is out of place. These owners might be summering in the Mediterranean for another four weeks, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t know if I left their place anything but spotless.

I make quick work of everything, only stopping once more to grind my teeth against this naggingly inconvenient pain, and close and lock the front door behind me. Slinging my briefcase bag onto my shoulder, I head toward the elevator bank, smashing the gold button impatiently to call the next available cart.

There are two elevators in this building, side by side, and I can hear the one on the left zooming toward the ground floor in a hurry. I cradle my stomach and hope with all my might that the one on the right will be swift to arrive.

Just as another pain shoots through my stomach, the doors open gallantly, and I stumble inside and hold on to the golden rail on the back wall.

God, why is the heat getting to me so badly today?

I take several deep breaths and lean into the wall, looking to the ceiling to find some kind of blind solace. You know, where you kind of black out a little, and everything that’s plaguing you fades away for a bit?

If I could just black out for like two, three minutes, and then be on my way to my next—

“Ah!” I scream unexpectedly as the elevator jolts so hard it forces my feet to stumble forward. In a matter of seconds, the main lights flash off and the cart settles to a dead stop. “Oh my God!” I stomp my one heel to the ground and stare at the emergency lights, the only source of illumination inside this small, confined space. “Are you kidding me?”

I look around manically. Up, down, at the wall, at the floor, and when the elevator cart still doesn’t budge and the lights don’t come back on, I smash my fingers against every damn button I can find.

I will take any floor at this point. I don’t care if I have to trek seven hundred flights of stairs. I refuse to be stuck in an elevator again.

But nothing changes.

I’m still inside the elevator, and the damn thing isn’t showing any signs of life.

Oh my God! This isn’t funny, universe! This isn’t the blackout I meant!

Remy

This kid, I swear.I laugh down at my phone as I read a message from Lexi.

I just dropped her off with Wes and Winnie after she spent the afternoon with me at Coney Island, but apparently my niece is none too thrilled with what her parents are up to.

Lexi: They’re currently potting a vegetable garden and talking about the meals they’re going to make with it, Uncle Remy. As if all of these plants won’t be dead within the month.

My sister and brother-in-law have a track record with plants. A can’t-keep-them-alive kind of sad reality. I know this because my annoyed niece always gives me the inside scoop.

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