Page 53 of Falling for Her

Oh crap. I swallow the bile that wants to come up and give her a tight smile.

I've felt terrible all morning and needed Trina's help. She’s taking over the baking while I stay out front, something I hate doing because baking is my passion and my calmness but this baby hates me because twice, I’ve vomited, reminding me that I am still indeed pregnant and I really don’t want to be sick again.

After Pitbull’s words the other night at dinner, I’ve taken them to heart, and yeah, I do believe my problem is how my mother passed giving birth to Aiden.

I’m scared but a termination because of fear is not the way to go. This baby is real. It most likely has a heartbeat, and I need to think things through. So many people would give anything to have a child. I know I’d love it more than anything a few years down the line but the time is here and it’s now, happening but I just don’t know if I can overcome my fear.

Is pre-eclampsia hereditary?

Well, that was a stupid thought.

I sigh as I put the dishes down near the sink and reply to Trina with a muttered lie, “Yeah, just didn’t sleep well.”

She nods with a furrowed brow but doesn’t say anything more and turns, opening the oven to take the pastry out. Without a second thought, I quickly turn back and walk out of the kitchen, breathing deeply before the scents hit me because I can’t vomit in front of her, especially when she has a bit of a big mouth. Trina can’t keep a secret to save her life and loves to gossip.

A hint of pastry smell hits my senses and my mouth waters but in a bad way and I huff. It’s safe to say the smell of pastry and cheese together is my weakness right now – damn.

I walk back behind the counter trying to squash my disappointment and look over the tables to see several still occupied, and smile, pride hitting me.

“I hope Mom is proud of me,” I whisper as I quickly rearrange underneath the counter, moving the empty trays out of the way before Trina brings some fresh bakes out and Damian begins to occupy my thoughts.

Dinner went well. My dad and Pitbull hit it off well, and even Damian began to relax. Instead of looking at his dad like he ruined his life, he treated him like a father—well, until Pitbull asked if he’d go to the clubhouse for a meeting again with the brotherhood.

Damian turned him down but somehow, Pitbull and my father managed to sway him which is where he is right now.

If he doesn’t want his cut back, then fine, but he at least needs closure, and that is something he hadn’t gotten, something my dad reminded him of. Besides, they are still his family, and family means everything. I lost my mother and every day, I would give anything to have her back, to have her advice about this baby. I’d hate for my boyfriend to regret not giving his family a chance to make things right, even if it means he doesn’t become a brother, again, something my father drilled into him to get him to agree to a meeting.

They can still be in his life even without the cut.

The bell above the door chimes and I put on my smile despite the bile filling me, all the smells combining that used to make me feel warmth making me want to puke.

My eyes lock with blue ones, and a little hesitation fills me at the hate shining my way and I struggle to keep my smile on my face.

Damn, if looks could kill, I’d be ten feet under.

The woman, whose dark brown hair is immaculate, struts over to me, her eyes taking me in but halting on the black T-shirt that, yes, is Damian’s that he wore yesterday.

I love wearing his clothes, there is nothing more comfortable than his shirts, but he has to have worn them the day before.

Weird? Maybe. Do I care? Not really.

Burning fire ignites in the woman’s eyes as her body language tightens while she takes in my attire and I raise a brow.

Okay, this woman hates me.

Her heels stop clicking on the tiled floor in front of the counter, and slowly, she looks at me from my jeans and up while I try to ignore the fact that her top is see-through, showing her black bra and the fact her skirt can be classified as a belt.

Jesus, do women dress like this during the day now? I mean she can’t be any older than me and she looks like a hooker.

“What can I get you?” I ask as politely as I can despite the fury she’s igniting right now.

I’d recognize her type from anywhere. She has spoiled, mean girl written all over her, and honestly, I don’t have the energy to put up with whatever she wants to bring into my bakery, and I won’t hesitate to kick her out if she starts anything.

Hopefully, she’s just here for a coffee then leaves.

One can hope, right?

The woman curls her lips, making her look a little less pretty, and sneers, “I want nothing from this dump,” and I snort, I can’t help it.

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