Page 437 of The Winslow Brothers

I let myself savor the cool air conditioning of the taxi for another few seconds, and then I haul ass. Door open, I toss forty dollars toward my driver and quickly grab my purse and bag.

“What the hell, lady?”

“Sorry, but I have to go! Thanks!” I shut the door and carefully maneuver through the traffic, both hands on my belly, until I reach the safety of the sidewalk.

I know my cab driver is pissed at me, because my problem has now become his problem, but that’s life, man. Not to mention, I paid him double the fare the meter on the dashboard showed.

He’ll get over it.

Me, on the other hand? Well, I just hope my swollen feet can tolerate the long, hot trek inside these heels I decided to wear today. It’s almost pathetic how my need to maintain a professional appearance still trumps my body’s cries for comfort.

A bead of sweat runs down my back as I maneuver through the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk.Hell’s bells, it’s hot. Why is it always so hot?

New York summers can be brutal, and like every other day for the past month and a half, today is no exception.

Suck it up, buttercup, and keep that preggo ass of yours moving.

Half a block into my blistering stroll, my phone buzzes with a new text message, and I quickly pull it out of my purse to see the very last name I want to see right now—Patricia Clemmons.

It’s been four weeks since I got stuck in the elevator that was located inside the building of a Greenwich Village property she decided she wanted to purchase.

Four weeks since you told Remington Winslow you’d call him…which you still haven’t done.

I roll my eyes at myself and focus on the task at hand—Mrs. Clemmons.

Ever since the Greenwich Village seller accepted the Clemmonses’s offer, I’ve had an influx of calls and texts from Patricia, all of which revolve around her closing date. But not for the normal reasons you’d expect. Any rescheduling that’s occurred is because her bougie ass likes to take last-minute, purely recreational trips to Fiji.

In the last several weeks, she’s caused me more headaches than my assistant and this pregnancy combined. Which is saying a lot because Claudia sucks at her job and my due date is only two days away.

I swear, if Mrs. Clemmons tries to reschedule her closing again, I’m calling the seller myself and telling them to back out of the deal. I don’t care how much commission I’ll have to walk away from.

Patricia Clemmons: Mr. Clemmons and I can make the closing next week.

“Hallelujah!” I shout so loud I startle a fellow pedestrian in passing as I finish the last block of my hot-as-balls walk across Central Park.Whoops.

Determined to get this date in stone, I type out a quick response to Mrs. Clemmons and the seller’s agent, solidifying the closing that I’ve already assigned to a new agent at my firm. I will most likely be busy with a newborn next week. At least, that’s what my OB-GYN, Dr. Maddox, has told me.

I hopeDaniel, one of two new agents that I hired out of desperation about a month ago, will be able to close the Clemmonses without any issues. I really, reallyhope.I’ve been trying to get both him and Brenda, the other agent I hired, up to speed, but I can’t deny, four weeks before I leave on maternity leave isn’t much time.

The building stands like a beacon in the distance, and it doesn’t take my tired, currently swelling feet too much longer to get there.

My client, however, is already standing outside.

Shoot.

Sweat drips from my brow, and I reach up to discreetly wipe it away before Mrs. Allistair sees my approach. She’s one of those women who’s kempt at all times, no matter the weather, and while I appreciate working with people who smell good, it’s not always easy to maintain my laundry-fresh scent when it’s one hundred degrees outside and I’m carrying the next world-record-sized baby.

I don’t actually know, of course, how big this baby is going to be, but I’m kind of doing the thing you do to figure out the tip at a restaurant—you know, taking the number of weeks and doubling it? That puts the baby’s poundage somewhere in the seventies.

That’s how I feel, at least.

There’s a part of me that wishes I knew whether I have a little boy or little girl inside this belly of mine, but the need to honor Isabella’s wishes has been too strong to deny. She wanted to be surprised, so looks like I’m going to be surprised whenever this baby makes his or her big debut.

And to think, that surprise is going to happen really damn soon…

Mentally, I’m well aware my due date is forty-eight hours away, but at the moment, I’m mostly just trying not to think about what I’m going to do when this baby is born until, you know, the baby is born.

Some might call it unhealthy avoidance, but I prefer to think of it as a woman trying to cope with the insane cards she’s been dealt. I mean, if you show me a psychology textbook that provides the “correct” way to handle a situation like mine, I’m certain it’ll be the day pigs can fly.

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