Accidentally Expecting. Michelle Celmer
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she feel as though she knew him somehow?
“So this will give us plenty of time to get acquainted.”
Maybe that was what she was worried about. She’d learned from one too many disastrous relationships not to trust her own judgment when it came to finding the wrong kind of man. Because the wrong kind of man for her, unfortunately, was the kind of man she was usually attracted to.
Chapter Four
“Another furniture store truck just pulled up,” Lianne, Miranda’s next-door neighbor, called from her perch on the couch by the front-room window. She had been sitting there for the past twenty minutes giving Miranda a blow-by-blow of the activity going on at the condo across the street.
Miranda stood around the corner in the kitchen, fixing herself a cup of tea and a plate of saltines, hoping it might ease the nausea brewing in her stomach. This was the third morning in a row that she’d woken feeling sick.
She knew that technically, morning sickness was a good thing. It meant her body was producing enough hormones to sustain a healthy pregnancy. That didn’t make her feel any better when she was kneeling to the porcelain gods, yacking up her breakfast. From now on it was tea and crackers every morning until her stomach settled.
“They’re unloading the furniture!” Lianne squealed. She was like this whenever someone new moved into the complex. Fresh meat, she liked to say.
Like Miranda, she was divorced. Bitterly divorced. But always in the market for a temporary distraction. She’d divorced her most recent temporary distraction three months ago.
“So far so good,” she reported. “Nothing kid related. No toys or baby furniture. Nothing too feminine, either. Could be a single man.”
The kettle began to whistle, and she poured boiling water into her cup. “You know that the first rule of dating is to never get involved with a neighbor,” she called back.
Lianne knew. She’d read Miranda’s book. But she still slipped back into her old ways from time to time. Hence her three ex-husbands—the latest of whom still lived around the corner.
“There’s no harm in looking,” she called back.
Miranda carried her tea and crackers into the front room. She set them on the coffee table and eased herself into the recliner where she’d been spending most of her mornings sacked out in her pajamas in front of the television.
Lianne sat curled up on the couch across the room, her nose practically touching the window. “Don’t you want to see?”
Miranda didn’t care about anything but making the nausea go away. “I’ll look when I can safely move.”
She momentarily peeled her eyes from the window to shoot Miranda a sympathetic look. “Still feeling sick, huh?”
“It’ll pass,” she said, nibbling the edge of a cracker. It was a catch-22. If she didn’t eat, she felt sicker, and if she ate too much, that was even worse. The trick was finding just the right balance.
So far, no luck.
“Just be happy you’re not like I was with Brandon,” Lianne said, referring to her nineteen-year-old son, who was currently in Houston attending college. “Sick as a dog from the day I got pregnant to the minute he was born.” She turned back to the window. “Oh, crud. We have baby stuff. They’re unloading a box with what looks like a crib…yep it’s a crib, all right. And here comes the changing table.”
“It’ll be nice to have a new family in the complex.” Miranda placed a hand over her still-flat stomach. “Someone for the baby to play with when he or she is old enough.”
Lianne sighed and turned from the window. “Have you decided if you want to find out the baby’s sex beforehand?”
“I’m not sure yet. On one hand, I love a good surprise, on the other, I could be more prepared if I knew.”
“What about the baby’s father? Does he want to know?”
Lianne knew the basic events surrounding Miranda’s pregnancy, but not the identity of the man involved. No one knew. Most people, including Miranda’s family, didn’t even know she was pregnant.
She knew exactly what people would say, what her family would think, and while she had stopped playing by their rules a long time ago, she just didn’t have the energy to deal with them right now. She was giving herself permission to be selfish for a while.
Miranda sipped her tea. “We haven’t decided yet.”
And not for lack of debate. Since her return from Chicago nearly a month ago, she’d spoken to Zack daily. His insatiable curiosity sometimes kept them on the line for an hour or more. And though at first she figured it would rapidly become annoying, now she didn’t mind so much. After all, what expectant woman didn’t love talking about her pregnancy?
“Well, I think it’s pretty cool that he’s moving here all the way from Chicago to be close to you. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Which could be a problem. Especially if they planned to keep this from the media. Zack was an empire. If he came to her condo, someone was bound to recognize him, and eventually, someone would talk.
The more she thought about it, the more complicated it was sounding.
“The woman we thought was the decorator is back,” Lianne said, nose to the window again. “She must be the wife, although I don’t see a baby anywhere.”
Miranda set her half-full cup down. She’d managed that and two crackers. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, waiting for the sickness to pass.
“We’ve got a black car pulling up to the curb. Holy cow. It’s vintage. A Mustang, I think. In mint condition. And it’s a guy behind the wheel.”
Miranda rocked gently, only half listening. She was starting to feel better. The crackers and tea were working.
“He’s getting out. Wow. Talk about tall, dark and handsome,” Lianne said wistfully. “And he’s got a body to die for. Come here, you need to see this guy.”
“Not yet.” She couldn’t move yet. If she got up too soon, she would just get sick all over again. And honestly, she didn’t care what the new family across the street looked like.
“He’s got to be at least six-one. Maybe even taller. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but I can tell his hair is short and dark. Dark brown, I think. He’s wearing cut-off jeans, a T-shirt and sandals. Very casual. I’m guessing midtwenties. Thirty tops.”
She could feel the nausea subsiding. Little by little.
“His wife just came outside. They’re chatting. You would think he would give her a kiss or hug or something.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like public displays of affection,” Miranda said, feeling obligated to contribute to the conversation. She actually appreciated Lianne’s morning visits. It helped keep her mind off how miserable she felt.
A writer like Miranda, she worked from a home office, so it wasn’t uncommon for her to drop by three or four times a day. Sometimes, when she developed a case of writer’s block, she would even bring her laptop over and set up shop on Miranda’s couch. She claimed the change of atmosphere would sometimes get the creative juices flowing.
“He’s smiling,” Lianne reported. “Oh, yeah, he’s a hunk. Major beefcake.”
The word “beef” made Miranda’s stomach lurch.
“I wish he would lose the shades so I could see his eyes. And what’s this? Hold the phones…he’s kissing her cheek! Very brief and polite. No way this woman is his wife.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one,” Miranda pointed out. “Maybe she’s already inside unpacking.”
“She’s handing him something.