“Yes, honey.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s typing away, her manicured nails a pink blur.
“Did you want to be a mother?”
“Of course, dear. Every woman does.” She still doesn’t look up.
“Do you think I’d be a good one?”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers stop flying. A flicker of hope sparks to life in my chest. She’s giving some thought to the question.
“There’s a lovely new boutique in the hotel zone,” she says as my heart nosedives into my belly. “Lots of loose, breezy Italian linen like you seem to be favoring these days.”
“Great.”
“Let’s go tomorrow after brunch. My treat. For Molly as well, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Good night, Mom.” Swallowing a sticky lump of disappointment, I turn and walk into my room.
As the door snicks shut behind me, I lean back against it. Closing my eyes, I rest a hand on my belly. There’s a rolling sensation, like oversized butterflies flapping around inside me. I wish Luke were here. He’s been wanting to feel our girls moving for weeks but keeps missing it.
I sink down on the bed and consider my options. I’ve already devoured six erotic romance reads since my library visit. I’ve enjoyed them immensely, though they haven’t done much to diminish my raging libido.
And yes, I bought one of the sex toys intended for solo use. I ordered online, too embarrassed to walk into Mischievous Mermaid like Zoe suggested. I was also too timid to pack it in my luggage for this trip. Even flying on a private jet, I can’t take the risk somebody might see it.
So here I am, sexually frustrated, six thousand miles from the man I can’t seem to stop wanting. The man whose body I crave like a ravenous beast. The one man I absolutely, positively should not touch.
But maybe getting in touch would suffice?
I glance at my watch, then do some quick time zone math. It’s ten p.m. here, so it’s one in the afternoon there. Is Luke watching football? Is that what he does on the weekends? I should probably know this about my girls’ father.
Feeling restless and homesick, I pick up my phone. Hesitating, I type out a message to Luke.
Can I call you?
I’ve barely hit send when the phone starts to ring. “Hello?”
“Is everything okay?” He sounds breathless and edgy. “With you and the babies?—”
“They’re fine. I’m fine.” I remember his words from the day we conceived.
You can flip me all the shit you want, Hazel Spencer. But don’t ever lie to me.
“Actually,” I say now, “I’m feeling sorta…off.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Do you need your mother to take you to the hospital?”
“No, it’s not that.” I manage a dry little laugh. “My mom doesn’t know yet.”
“You haven’t told her?” He sounds like he’s doing his best not to sound judgy.
“I haven’t found the right time.”
“She hasn’t noticed?”
“I—no, she hasn’t.” For some reason I feel like I need to defend Mom a little. “It’s not like I’m showing that much. Molly says tall women tend to hide pregnancy better. A long torso means more vertical space for babies to grow upwards, rather than pushing the belly out.”
