Tell Me a Desire (The Story Series Book 2) (8 page)

W
e had
reservations at a new restaurant inside the Waldorf Astoria, an Italian-inspired place with a celebrity chef from Napa. It was the kind of restaurant that played Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin in the background. I would have been more excited about the retro charm had I not been woozy from nerves and, I assumed, pregnancy.

“You want to take a selfie?” Caleb asked as we passed a giant tropical flower display in the lobby, popping with orange and red hues.

I shook my head and he glanced at me. “What’s wrong? Usually you can’t pass up a selfie in front of tropical foliage.” He circled my waist with his arm, and I wriggled away.

“Not in the mood,” I shrugged. He’d joked and laughed on the way over, and I knew his sister hadn’t told him my secret.

It was now up to me, at an expensive restaurant, to tell him.

Or wait. Maybe I’d wait! I pondered this as we walked in. How long could I wait before telling him?

Because everyone knew Caleb, we were seated at an intimate table near a window, overlooking a thatch of coiffed, bright green palm trees. The restaurant was elegantly decorated with ivory-colored marble columns and floors, dark leather chairs, and muted lighting that somehow made Caleb’s face even more alluring. The only real sounds were the hushed murmurs of the diners, the clink of forks against plates and the subdued strains of big band music.

Nervously, I unfolded my white napkin and arranged it on my lap. Tonight I had on a cream-colored blouse with little cherries and a tight red pencil skirt. Somehow, the skirt seemed tighter by the minute. Constricting. Like I couldn’t take a full breath.

Glancing up from the menu, I studied my boyfriend’s sharp cheekbones and his deep blue eyes. Would our baby get his eyes?

“You choose the wine tonight, Em.” Caleb held the menu at arm’s length. I kept scrutinizing his face. Dear God, the father of my child was forty-two and needed reading glasses. I wouldn’t be far behind. Had we waited too long to have a baby?

Panic seized me, and I started to sip shallow breaths in my upper chest.

“I’m, um, not in the mood to drink tonight, Caleb.”

His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like we were alcoholics or anything, but expensive wines were a firm part of our lives. For me not to want a glass or three during dinner was highly unusual.

“You feeling okay? You haven’t quite been yourself since the sushi.”

God, he was observant. I was almost shocked he couldn’t smell my pregnancy. I opened my mouth, poised to blurt out the truth. Then the waiter appeared and I clammed up.

“Ma’am,” the waiter said. “What would you like to drink this evening?”

Ma’am?
I’d never been called ma’am before. I’d always been a
miss
. Jesus. Was my matronly status already obvious?

“Water with lemon for me, thanks.”

Caleb scowled and ordered a glass of Chianti for himself.

The waiter turned to me. “And have we decided on appetizers? The special tonight is paté.”

I swallowed a retch and shook my head.

“We’re still trying to decide,” Caleb said quickly.

The waiter nodded and slipped away.

“What’s wrong?” Caleb asked. “You’re a little pale. Paler than usual.”

I took a huge breath. Was it ethical to tell him here, in public? What if he freaked out? Caleb never freaked out, but what if he got angry? Or cried? Or…I don’t know. What do men feel when they find out they’re going to be fathers?

A buzzing noise came from the direction of Caleb’s chest, and he patted his suit jacket pocket. He rolled his eyes. “Em, I’m sorry, I need to get this. It’s about Brazil. I’ll be right back.”

He stood and left the restaurant, leaving me staring at the menu, relieved at the brief reprieve from telling him the news. I scanned the menu. Veal…no. Crab…no. Duck…the idea of greasy meat made me want to vomit. I’d have to chat eventually with my doctor about being a pregnant vegetarian.

A pregnant, geriatric vegetarian who drove a Prius. I was such a cliché. All I needed was a public radio tote bag. Actually, I even had one of those because I’d used it to buy growlers filled with local kombucha at the farmer’s market the previous weekend. I idly wondered if it would work as a diaper bag. No, I’d have to get something roomier.

Would I have to give up my special kombucha tea? It was fermented, raw, and possibly a danger. My brain spun with thoughts and questions to ask my doctor. I needed to start a list of questions.

I was thinking about everything except what I should have been thinking of—telling my boyfriend he was going to be a father.

I decided on the ricotta ravioli with lemon cream sauce.

Caleb slipped back into his seat. He’d removed his jacket and was loosening his tie, a motion I usually found sexy. Tonight, I wasn’t sure what to feel.

“Everything okay?” I croaked.

“Yeah. It’s fine. There’s a few details to be ironed out. Last-minute crap. So how did the doctor go? Did you get the vaccines? Even if you didn’t get them today, we’ve still got some months. It’s just best to be prepared.”

My hands instinctively flew to my stomach, and Caleb’s eyes did, too.

“Caleb.”

He opened his eyes wide and nodded, as if urging me to speak. His gaze went from my stomach to my eyes and back to my stomach.

“Caleb, I can’t go to Brazil.”

After taking a big gulp of water, he frowned. “Why?”

“The mosquito. Zika. Microcephaly. The baby. Dammit, I’m pregnant.”

I burst into tears, huge messy sobs that made everyone around us stare. “I’m sorry,” I blubbered when I stared into his shocked eyes. I dabbed at my face with the white napkin and gobs of black mascara stained the fabric. Not caring if anyone saw or heard, I jumped up and headed for the bathroom. I couldn’t move too fast because I wore tall, black heels.

Caleb was quick behind me, and in the empty, mirrored hallway—which sparkled with gold and crystal accents from the sconces on every wall—he grabbed my wrist and spun me around. We were under a giant, shimmering chandelier.

“Sweetheart.” He hugged me tight. “Sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I know you don’t want—”

“Hush. I do. I want. I want you and I want our baby. I want.”

I shuddered in a sloppy breath and gawked at him. I’d gotten mascara on his white shirt. “You do?”

“More than anything.” He crushed his mouth onto mine, and at that moment, everything became more acute. His oaky vanilla smell, the heat of his lips, the soft strains of Dean Martin’s “Everybody Loves Somebody” soaring from a speaker in the ceiling.

We kissed and kissed under the sparkle of the chandelier.

“Ahh, young love,” an elderly woman remarked as she strolled past us. I laughed and buried my face into Caleb’s chest.

“She’s pregnant,” Caleb called out, grinning. “With my baby.”

How I loved him.

O
nce back at home
, Caleb and I lay in bed, naked, and he rubbed my stomach.

“I’m sorry I can’t go to Brazil with you. I’m disappointed. I know you are, too.”

“We’ll go later, as a family. Promise. And we’ll go somewhere together before the baby comes. You choose. Somewhere cold, without mosquitoes.”

“Hm. Maybe Canada?” I imagined me hugely pregnant, us playing in snow and watching reindeer, and laughed. I was so damned relieved Caleb was happy. That he wanted me and the baby. Wanted us as a family.

“Keep thinking about where you’d like to go. I’ll be right back.” I watched Caleb’s naked and firm backside leave the room and lifted the sheet to stare at my stomach for the millionth time.

I was about five or six weeks pregnant, the doctor had estimated. I wasn’t sure if I could see a swell yet. My tummy seemed bigger, but I’d always had a bit of a pooch. I rubbed around my bellybutton and Caleb walked back in and knelt on the bed. One of his hands was behind his back.

“Emma.” His voice was shaky, gravelly. “I was going to do this when we were in Brazil, but it seems like tonight’s a much more appropriate night.”

The sheet fell away as I rose on my knees to face him, my lips parting as he held a small, black velvet box toward me. He opened the lid and I wasn’t sure what to look at—the enormous blue sapphire set with shimmering diamond accents or the tear sliding down his cheek. The gem was the same color as his eyes.

“Will you marry me? I love you.”

“Yes,” I whispered, burying my face in my hands because I didn’t know what else to do. “God, yes. I love you, too.”

I dropped my hands, and I didn’t know who was shaking more. Him as he took the ring out of the box and slipped it on my finger, or me, as I held my hand in the air.

“Are you sure? Is this what you want? You’re not asking me because I’m pregnant?”

He cupped my face. “Baby, I bought this before I knew you were pregnant.”

“Right. Yes.” I nodded. We were still both on our knees facing each other. My whole body was quaking. “What made you change your mind? Why did you want to propose after you said you were afraid our relationship would change?”

I thought of his earlier assessment of marriage, how it was both impossible and easy and how he’d taken his first wife for granted. If he became complacent with me, would he turn to someone else? Would I cease to be interesting enough? New enough? Exciting enough?

The answers would only come by saying yes.

To him.

To our baby.

To us.

I put my hand on his cheek, and he turned his lips into my palm. His head dipped and he inhaled, and I wiped a tear off his face with my thumb. Glancing up, he appeared vulnerable, which was something new for me. Probably for him, too.

“I realized I was more scared of you leaving me than of our relationship changing. I felt like you deserved the best of me. All of my love.”

Now the tears flowed hard down my face.

“So I’d planned on asking you to marry me at Iguazu Falls in Brazil. When you’d mentioned you wanted to go there, I’d planned a day of adventure that ended in a proposal. But this is way better. In our bedroom. Naked. Just us. Giving ourselves to one another.”

“Giving ourselves. Yes. I love you. I want to give everything to you.” I reached for him, pulling him atop me.

He stared into my eyes, and I realized, maybe for the first time in my life, that everything would be okay. He would care for me, and our baby, in every way possible.

“You’re the best gift of all, Emma. You
and
our baby. The best gifts of all.”

W
ant more
of Emma and Caleb’s story? TELL ME A LIE: Episode Three of The Story Series, i
s available exclusively on Amazon
!

K
eep reading
for a preview of Tamara Lush’s standalone novel about a second chance at first love,
INTO THE HEAT
. Available now from
Boroughs Publishing Company
.

H
e’d never seen
anyplace so brown.

The tents. The uniforms. The vehicles. Everything was covered in a fine, tan dust. On most days even the sky took on a haze from the microscopic particles, leaving the heavens above a swirly, near-colorless blue. The guys at Camp Leatherneck called the sandy substance moon dust, and Leo Villeneuve thought that was appropriate. Because Afghanistan was as far from his lush New Orleans as the moon.

He hated moon dust.

Muscles aching from a beast of a workout at the on-base gym, he stood outside his tent and stretched. The early evening sun was still hot, and he was sweating like a whore in church. The IDF alarm went off, but after two weeks on base as a private first class rifleman he no longer flinched inside when the loud wail echoed through camp. Surely this was another raid siren test, so he waited for the surreal, computerized voice to come over the camp loudspeaker and tell everyone that it was just that. A test.

The pitch of the alarm rose and fell, rose and fell. The sound pierced his ears and left him dizzy, made him feel disembodied. Then the robotic, recorded female voice giving the all clear bounced off the dusty earth, sounding almost warped with her formal, stiff English accent.

“This is a test of the all-clear alarm… This is a test of the all-clear alarm…”

“Yo, V!”

He looked up to see his buddy Steve from North Carolina. As usual, Steve was grinning. Guy couldn’t stop, even in a damn war zone.

“What’s up, bro?” Leo grabbed the towel hooked into his waistband and wiped his face. Damn, it was hotter than anything he’d ever felt in the swamps of Louisiana.

“She’s kinda got a sexy voice, that British chick. Or do you Cajuns not understand what she’s sayin’? ‘Who dat’ and all?”

Leo chuckled. “Bro, you know I like a sweet southern accent on my girls.”

Well, one girl in particular.

He kicked a rock on the ground, thinking about the girl he’d left behind. He should’ve gone to college near Jessica in Florida, not joined the Marines like all the other men in his family. God, he missed her so much. Now she was probably pissed at him, after he’d followed his dad’s order to stay away from her. That pregnancy scare had just about caused World War III the way his dad and her mom carried on.

Well, he might have lost Jess for now, but dammit, he was going to try to win her back once he got out of this hellhole.

If
he got out of this hellhole.

Kicking the rock caused a cloud of dust to swirl up from the toe of his boot, and Leo stared, captivated. His stomach churned, and his brain felt as hazy as the sky. Then came the explosion.

It came from the direction of Camp Bastion, the nearby British military base. The blast was like a punch into the air. It drowned out the IDF alarm, and Leo swore loudly when he spotted thick clouds of dirt bursting upwards not too far away. Then there was a flash and another sickening pang in his stomach…and suddenly he found himself in another part of the desert.

He was still in Afghanistan, but in Farah. He was in the back of a Humvee, holding Steve’s bloody head in his lap and yelling at the top of his lungs while weeping from the pain shooting through his ripped-apart arm.

Don’t die, bro. Don’t die on me ….

His whole body tense, he held his breath, waiting. For the next explosion. For chaos. For death?

Silence. Blackness. Empty space. All of which were more terrifying than bombs and blood. Then, a symphony of crickets. The familiar feeling of humidity coating his skin. The sweet smell of night jasmine.

Leo’s eyes snapped open. For a moment he was confused, on edge, listening, waiting for something awful to happen. But he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He wasn’t next to the compound attacked by insurgents and not in the Humvee two years later when he and Steve were hit by an IED. Where he almost lost his arm. Where he just about lost his mind. No, tonight he was on a bench in the New Orleans City Park. It was dark, but moonlight danced across the nearby slow-moving stream and shone against the stones of an arched bridge. The air felt soupy and moist, not dry and thin.

Shaking, sweating, scared now about something else, Leo struggled to sit up.

It’s happened. The night terrors. I’ve f***ing blacked out again.

He had taken the sleeping pill, and these were the consequences. He hated taking the damn things. This wasn’t the first time the pills had put him in a fugue state and led him to wander out of bed. Wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this out-of-control uncertainty about where he was and what he’d done.

He gulped in several breaths then heard sirens in the distance, wails similar to the ones he’d heard when stationed in Afghanistan. But these were ordinary American fire trucks. A lot of them, it seemed, whizzing past on City Park Drive; he spotted their red flashing lights through the Spanish moss drooping off the branches of the live oaks.

A hard swallow, and his hand went to his beard. He hadn’t shaved or cut his hair since his honorable discharge, mostly because it annoyed his father. The several months’ growth made him look like a hipster, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass because the dark, scruffy look matched his mood most days.

What was that in his beard? Something chalky. He looked down at his hand and rubbed his fingers together. Because it was dark, he couldn’t see much, but it felt like ash. Had he bought a pack of cigarettes or…?

He touched his beard again then sniffed his fingers. All he could smell was moon dust. That happened a lot, which his therapist said it was because of the PTSD. His brain wires were crossed.

Hunh. Where have I been?

Pricks of perspiration tickled his arms. They were damp, as if he’d run a marathon. Actually, his whole body was moist, rivers of sweat pooling between the ridges of his stomach muscles and down to the waistband of his cargo shorts.

Teeth chattering even though it wasn’t cold, he ran his fingers up his left forearm, over the scars. Without looking, he knew exactly where the tattoo of a mermaid was on his bicep. He traced her, something he did when anxious. Her tail, her curvy hips, her tiny waist and her big breasts. Then the five points of the starfish on his shoulder.

With a quick motion, he flicked off the sweat that had nestled near his collarbone. Why the hell was he wearing only a pair of cargo shorts while sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night?

Barefoot?

He looked down.

How did I get here?

Heart pounding, he wiped the sweat off his chest with his palm, his hand smearing across the hard planes of his pecs. More sirens ripped through the night, and Leo tilted his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. Was that…smoke?

Yes, fire. Squinting into the distance, he saw an orange flicker coming from the strip mall near the park. That’s where the Marine recruiting center was, the one that he had walked into five years earlier, changing his life forever. The one that he’d wished a thousand times had never existed.

Leo launched to his feet as fear settled in his chest.

What the hell have I done?