Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,159

told herself. You’ve got this. It’s a first day. First days are always awful. And Mom isn’t here, and …

Which was when she cried for real. Sitting on the edge of the bed in the swimsuit bottoms that didn’t fit anymore, either, clutching the serene cream-colored duvet cover, no doubt made out of fleece combed from the belly of some exotic animal that lived only at extreme elevations in the Himalayas and was tended by Buddhist monks. She wasn’t looking out the window at an endless vista of evergreen forest, with Mt. Hood starting to glow with the colors of twilight, because it wasn’t helping.

She had a new job that was beyond anything she’d ever thought she’d get. She was living in the fanciest house she’d ever seen. She was sort-of-dating the hottest, sweetest man she’d ever known. And all she wanted was to put her head in her mom’s lap, feel her mom’s fingers smoothing through her hair, and hear the voice she’d never hear again saying, “It’ll be OK, baby. It’ll be better in the morning. You can do this.”

She couldn’t. She couldn’t. Her mouth was open, and she was sobbing.

When the tap came on the door, she barely registered it. When it came again, she thought, I can’t let Dyma see me like this. I need to be the mom. Frantic with it, and not a single bit more in control. And when she heard the door opening and Harlan’s voice saying, “Jennifer?” she couldn’t manage to do more than try to pull the duvet over her. It was trapped under the too-heavy, fancy Euro pillows, and that made her cry more.

“Jennifer?” Closer now. Right here. In the doorway behind her.

“Yeah,” she said, and tried to control her voice. “Sorry. I’m just … did you need something?”

“Hey. Baby, what’s wrong? Job no good after all?” He came around the bed, sat down beside her, and didn’t put his arms around her. Instead, he took off his shirt and pulled it over her.

All right. Now she was really crying. Also incredibly embarrassed.

She said, “My bikini top doesn’t fit, so I can’t swim,” and tried to laugh. “Last … straw. Low … low point.” She grabbed a bunch of tissues from the bedside table and mopped up. “I’ve cried … around you so much.” Another sniff. Yep, she was irresistible, all right. “You weren’t supposed to … see this one. It was just … I missed my mom.” Which made her tear up some more.

“Well, I can’t be your mom,” he said, “but I can solve the bikini problem. We do some more shopping, that’s all.”

“No time. I’ve got so much homework. It’s … I’m not an assistant, it turns out. I’m an assistant logistics manager. How did I get to be a manager? How do I be a manager? Why didn’t Blake tell me?” She did her best not to be self-conscious, but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t just a blotchy, weeping redhead now, she was a blotchy, weeping, half-naked, pregnant redhead with swollen breasts and a belly that seemed to get bigger every day. Whereas he was also half-naked, but looked like he should be on a firefighter calendar.

She said, “Why do you have to look that good? It’s unfair.”

“Aw, baby.” He was laughing, and she was, too. In a watery sort of way, but she was laughing. He said, “I was just thinking that today, when you came home. I’m thinking it now, if you want to know the truth. Not quite as good as when you’re all fired up and hot at me, because that’s still my favorite, but on the other hand …” His hand landed on her thigh and held on. “Not wearing much at all. Here’s a thought for you. It’s a private pool. It’s indoors. Ever swum naked?”

“Uh …” She did her best to look sidelong at him. “No.”

“Totally different experience. Stimulating, too, you could say. The kind of daring thing a logistics manager might do. And of course you can be one. If you ask me, you already were one. Blake’s just putting a ring on it. So to speak.”

“Not what you said today. What did you say to him? He looked kind of stunned.”

“He’s got to learn that you don’t always get to be the quarterback, that’s all. Also, there’s this online-shopping deal nowadays, and all it takes is a credit card and a one-click finger. We could do some of that together. Another date. Call it—Saturday, over breakfast?