Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Two, please. No, four. I might want some tomorrow.” I gasped. “And what’s that?”
“That’s tarte tatin, an upside-down caramelized apple tart with a buttery pastry dough, baked then flipped over so the caramelized topping drizzles all the way through.”
Was it possible to get aroused by pastries? “Yeah, I’ll take three of them.”
When Chef Dubois rang up my order, four boxes were filled with sugary treasures. “I think you missed me, Madam Davenport,” he teased.
“Well, I always miss you.”
“I can tell.” He slid the boxes forward. “You’re my best customer.”
“Well, I’m not alone. I’m actually ordering for two, now.”
He glanced up from the antique register, his dark eyes widening under his bushy, white brows. “Enceinte? A baby?”
I smiled and nodded. Chef Dubois rushed out from behind the counter and hugged me.
“Congratulation! Merveilleuse!”
We danced about the bakery in an affectionate hug I was certain other customers didn’t come close to experiencing with their baker. Yeah, I was definitely his favorite.
Chef Dubois helped me carry my boxes to the car and insisted I not wait so long between visits. He also told me to call him with any craving, and he would make it happen. It was like having secret access to James Bond, but better. On the drive home, I was strongly considering him for the godfather of my unborn child.
By my sixteenth week, I noticed some physical changes in my waistline—partially due to nature and partially due to my close ties to the baker. Jeans were a thing of the past. That was decided long before pregnancy because zippers and buttons were just a lot of drama. Leggings and underwear had always been my go-to, but even they felt tight now.
I bought some high-waisted granny panties and sized up so there was room to grow. My wardrobe was narrowing to loose-fitting sundresses and my coziest cardigans. With my puffy ankles, it wasn’t very sexy, but it was comfy. And comfy was my jam.
Thanksgiving was around the corner and we were celebrating at the New England Riverton Estate. Marta was cooking at Remington’s house and Odette was staying with him. We would crash at Hale’s section of the estate with our mothers. Seraphina was staying at her portion and Barret was staying at his—with a girl.
“Who is she?” I asked Hale as he drove us to the ultrasound appointment.
“All I know is that he met her in New York, and her name is McKinsley.”
“Wait, what? McKinsley? What the fuck kind of name is that? Is there a little C in there?”
“I didn’t ask for her documentation, Rayne.”
“Is she a model?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I’d suspect yes.”
“Is she fun? She’s probably boring. She better not be one of those girls who eats half a crouton for dinner.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Why don’t you get more information when you talk to your brother?”
“Because he’s my brother, not a covert op in espionage.” He pulled into a parking lot. “We’re here.”
I wiped the sweat off my palms, not understanding why I was nervous. It was just an ultrasound, and we’d had them before. Maybe I was excited.
Nope, it was nerves. I could tell because as soon as I got out of the car and looked up at the office building, I had the urge to poop. Or puke. Or maybe I was just hungry. “I should have eaten that soft pretzel.”
Hale took my arm and led me inside. Once we signed in, he and I waited on a set of blue chairs.
“You okay?” He took my sweaty hand and patted it in that soothing way that usually calmed me down.
“What if I can’t see it? There was an episode of Friends when Rachel couldn’t see the baby. What if I’m like that?” I was the mommy. I should be able to differentiate my unborn child from other ultrasonic goo. There was no doubt in my mind that Hale would recognize the baby right away, but what if I wasn’t so lucky. Should I lie if I can’t find it? What if I never found it until it came shooting out of me like a log on a flume? I needed to stop dramatizing the birth in my head. Everything was going to be fine. We were rich. Rich people had nice calm births with doulas and meditational playlists. What the hell was my Spotify password.
My foot kicked incessantly. “What about the sex?”
“Our sex? I guess I could take the rest of the afternoon off—”
I shoved him. “No, Hale. The baby’s sex. Do we want to know the gender or not?”
“I would think yes.”
“Really?” I wasn’t so sure. I liked the idea of being prepared, but wasn’t the surprise part of the fun. “No. I think definitely no.”
“You don’t want to know if we’re having a girl or a boy?”
Human error was a real risk in these situations. I was afraid they’d assign the gender wrong, and we’d spend a fortune on stereotypical baby merch only to have to return everything after the refund period expired.