Around eleven, my phone buzzes with a text from Rev.
Greer says the collection samples are being produced. She wants you in New York next month for fittings. Congrats, sis. You did it.
I stare at the message, feeling tears prick my eyes.
My career is taking off.
My collection is going to be made, worn, and seen by the world.
A few months ago, this would have been the most exciting news of my life.
Now it's competing with a positive pregnancy test and the love of a man I barely knew six weeks ago.
My life has gotten very complicated very fast.
By noon, I'm starving.
The morning sickness has faded, replaced by a gnawing hunger that won't be ignored.
I remember reading somewhere that pregnancy hunger is different—more urgent, more demanding.
Your body needs fuel for two.
Two.
I press a hand to my stomach and feel a flutter of something that might be excitement or terror.
Probably both.
"I'm going to grab lunch at Bubba's," I tell RJ. "Do you want anything?"
He's in the middle of a call with someone from Ireland, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he covers the phone with his hand. "I'll come with you."
"It's literally attached to the clubhouse. I'll be fifty feet away, and at the first sign of trouble I can walk right back in."
"Dalla—"
"You can watch me walk through the door from here." I gesture to the door that connects Bubba’s to the clubhouse. "I'll sit where you can see me. Thirty minutes, tops."
He hesitates, clearly torn between his protective instincts and the knowledge that he can't smother me completely.
The compound is secure.
The bar is full of club members.
I'll be surrounded by people who would die to protect me.
"Thirty minutes," he says finally. "And you sit by the window."
"Deal."
I kiss his cheek and head out, grabbing my bag on the way.
The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the courtyard bustling with club activity.
Prospects working on bikes, their hands black with grease.
Ol’ ladies chatting on the porch, watching kids run around the yard.
