Page 35 of Abstract Passion

She nods, her eyes glazed over slightly. “At home.”

As she drives away, a weight forms in my stomach. A weight I cannot shake. A weight that tells me there is more to come. And honestly, I’m not sure how much more I can handle.

FIFTEEN

SHELLY

The next fourmonths are going to be the death of me.

Am I being a bit dramatic? Probably, but I don’t care. I have earned the right to be a drama queen. When you have done everything on your own for decades, being told you can’t sucks. Losing any semblance of your independence sucks. Feeling helpless sucks.

Not a minute passes where I regret this pregnancy. If anything, I consider myself lucky to have found Devlyn, to have fallen in love with him, to start the next phase of life with him.

But so much has changed in such a short period. In the process, part of me feels as if I have lost myself. Lost the woman I was before Devlyn and pregnancy. Lost the time I once had with friends and family.

Again, I have zero regrets about my relationship with Devlyn. I love him. More than I thought I could love another person. I don’t regret the baby either. It’s just… I wish our time line was different. I wish Devlyn and I would’ve had more time together first. To explore life and love, just the two of us, before going from zero to one-hundred in the blink of an eye.

All of it happened so quickly. Us evolving fromjust friendsto boyfriend and girlfriend to living together with a baby on the way. In less than six months, we went from nothing to everything.

Much as I wanted a relationship like those in my romance novels, I didn’t expect to get the whole shebang all at once. The guy, the house, the baby. Fingers crossed, I get the happily ever after too.

Two weeks ago, Dr. Webster said I’d suffered from panic attacks. The most unfathomable part of her diagnosis was that I’d never experienced anxiety prior to pregnancy. Not once. Perhaps it takes a momentous occasion to trigger anxiety or depression. Or maybe it’s part of our genetic makeup and remains dormant in some until the match is struck.

Hopefully my lessened activity and new meditative regimen helps reduce the attacks. Hopefully they vanish altogether, otherwise there will be medication and the possibility of bed rest. I’d like to avoid both.

“That’s stunning,” Elizabeth says as she returns from lunch.

I eye the bouquet on the arrangement table, twisting the vase left then right as a smile plumps my cheeks. “Thank you.”

The plethora of pink flowers is at the request of one of our regular customers. His wife adores pink—she obviously has good taste—and he ordered the arrangement for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. After a hefty payment, he gave us free rein to choose the flowers and greenery. His only request…“It needs a lot of pink.”

“How many stems have you added?”

I lean back and look for anyemptyspots in the bouquet. “Thirty.” I twist my lips in concentration. “I’d like to get a full three dozen.”

Elizabeth pats my shoulder. “You will.” A soft smile on her lips as she wanders off. “I’ll be in the back unpacking the delivery. Holler if you need me.”

“Will do.”

I go back to the bouquet and zone out as I add the last remaining stems to the vase. Satisfied with the bouquet, I take it into the cooler where we stash orders waiting to be delivered. As I exit, I spot a man in the store near the meadow mural.

“Good afternoon,” I greet him. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

For two breaths, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Doesn’t speak a word. He simply stares at the painting on the wall.

Queasiness twists my stomach. Has me inching away from this stranger. My eyes fall shut as I inhale deeply and tell my body and mind to relax. Tell myself to not get worked up over nothing. He could simply be admiring the work, nothing more.

Cool and a bit more collected, my eyes open as I put on my best work smile. I open my mouth to tell the man I will leave him to browse and check back with him shortly, but he speaks up first.

“Beautiful piece,” he states. The soft timbre of his voice is vaguely familiar. Though I have never met this man, something about him screams recognition. My brows pinch together as I study him from the corner of my eye.

“Um, thank you.” I wipe my hands on the apron at my waist. “A local artist painted the mural for the shop.”

The man shoves his hands in the pockets of his dress slacks, rocks back on his heels once, then nods. “I’m familiar with his work.”

Never said the artist was a man. The queasiness in my belly builds as bile climbs up my throat.

Who is this man? And why the hell does he make me uncomfortable?

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