Page 6 of Pregnant in Plaid
The truth is, nobody measures up. Not to her. Not to Patrice with her Florida sunshine laugh and the way she kissed me like she was claiming territory.
My phone buzzes on the workbench, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
Gage: You free tonight?
Me: Define free.
Gage: Not covered in sawdust and talking to the picture of your dog.
Me: That's just hurtful and also accurate.
Gage: Come over for dinner. Tessa's making something that may or may not be edible. She's experimenting.
Me: Is this a cry for help?
Gage: Always.
I grin and type back that I'll be there, then set the phone down.
I clean up the workshop, brush most of the sawdust out of my hair. The drive to Gage's place takes twenty minutes through winding mountain roads that are finally clear of snow now that it's June. Summer in Alaska is short but glorious—long days, warm sun, everything green and alive.
When I pull up to the cabin, Tessa's already on the porch waving like I'm a ship coming into harbor. She's wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Cook (at your own risk)" and has flour smudged on her cheek.
"Trace!" she yells, like I'm not thirty feet away. "You're early!"
"Traffic was light," I deadpan, climbing out of the truck.
Gage appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face. "She's been watching the window for twenty minutes."
"I have not!" Tessa protests, standing up and brushing dog hair off her jeans. "I was just... coincidentally near the window. Doing window-adjacent activities."
"Staring," Gage clarifies.
"Observing," she corrects.
I laugh and follow them inside. The cabin smells like something burning, which is either ambitious cooking or a small kitchen fire. Hard to say with Tessa.
"So," I say, settling onto the couch while Toby, one of Gage’s dogs, immediately flops at Gage's feet. "What's the occasion? You don't usually invite me over mid-week."
Tessa and Gage exchange a look—one of those couple looks that involves an entire conversation through eyebrow movements and slight head tilts. Finally, Tessa grins so wide I'm worried her face might split.
"We're getting married!" she squeals, holding up her left hand where a ring glints in the light.
I blink. Process. Then break into a genuine smile. "Seriously? That's amazing! Congrats, man." I stand up and pull Gage into one of those back-slapping man-hugs that convey emotion without actually having to say feelings out loud.
"Thanks," Gage says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice even though his face barely changes.
Tessa launches into an explanation about the proposal—something involving a carved wolf, a sunset, and Gage finally using more than five words in a row. I'm only half-listening because my brain has snagged on one crucial detail.
"When's the wedding?" I ask.
"January," Tessa says. "We wanted to do it during the solstice festival, but that's too chaotic. So we're thinking January. Small ceremony, just close friends and family."
January. Seven months away.
"That's great," I say, and mean it. "You need help with anything?"
"Actually," Tessa says, her grin turning slightly mischievous, "my maid of honor is flying in a few days early to help with planning."
