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I follow her to the front desk, where we schedule everything for exactly four weeks from today. I take a card with the times of our appointments on it so I can take that morning off from MadInk. I’ll have Stella put the dates in the calendar when I get back to work.

“Okay,” I say, once we’re back in my car and settled. “What sounds good to you for lunch?”

I doubt I have to ask. Ever since we went to El Gaucho last weekend, Cara’s been eating spicy Mexican food almost nonstop. Pregnancy cravings are no joke.

She turns to me, her grin wide and easy, and laughs. “Tacos. What else?”

See?

Chapter 22

Cara

My feet are propped up on the coffee table in front of me. Netflix is streaming a ridiculously amazing show about Vikings. In my lap is the book Jenna’s been telling me to buy that Ifinallygot around to purchasing. Next to me is a notebook and pen, which I’ve been using to scribble down every single baby item known to man I have to purchase. Jenna wasn’t kidding. Babies need more supplies and gear and accessories than I had realized. In one hand, I’m holding a large chocolate shake that was once topped with whipped cream, and in my other hand, I’m holding a greasy, delicious French fry. Lucy’s head is on my thigh, wide eyes glued to me ever since I came back from grabbing my dinner. She’s staring at me, waiting for me to drop a fry.

She doesn’t seem to care about the food in her dish despite the dozens of times I’ve told her she has her own food.

I’m dressed in my sole remaining pair of black yoga pants that are stretched to the max at the seams, and my sweatshirt is so old it has holes in the wrist cuffs…not because it’s fashionable, but because I’ve owned this since my freshman year of college.

Needless to say, I look pretty much like the mess I currently am when Braxton walks in when he’s done with work.

“Whoa,” he says, laughter rich in his voice. “Looks like someone’s finally over the Mexican craving.”

I dip my fry into the shake and pop it into my mouth. “I had a craving. Sue me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He walks to me and bends over the back of the couch, kissing the top of my head. “How was your day?”

“Busy, I worked at Gallio’s this morning and spent the afternoon painting.” I grin up at him. In the last two weeks, my morning sickness has abated to more of an annoyance than an impending doom, and I’ve been more inspired than I can ever remember feeling. I blame my new painting space and the incredible views I see morning, noon, and night, and it’s not a complaint. “Yours?”

“A pain in the ass. I worked on a back piece that took most of the day.” He holds up his hand and curls his finger. “My hand feels like it might become a claw permanently.”

“Nice. Did you eat?”

“Yeah. Stella and I grabbed some takeout.” He points to my shake and cardboard container of fries. “Is that your dinner?”

I pop another chocolate-coated fry into my mouth. “I’m working on my calcium intake.”

“You’re a nut. Let me go take a shower and I’ll be back.” He glances at the television, where a fight scene filled with mostly half-naked men wearing furs grabs his attention. “What are you watching? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

He stops near the mouth of the hallway and turns back to me, as if he’s just realized he’s forgotten something. “Hi, Lucy.”

The dog’s ears twitch but she doesn’t take her eyes off the fry in my hand.

“Ah, I see,” Braxton says. “I’ve been replaced by the love of greasy food.”

“It’s the dinner of champions.”

His laugh echoes down the hallway and I pet Lucy’s head. “Good girl,” I say and give her the fry she’s been patiently begging for. I love this dog. I work fewer hours than Braxton so I’m home a lot more than him. I like that she follows me everywhere, always sitting at my side, usually with her dopey face resting near my stomach.

Braxton has mentioned before she’s difficult to adopt out because not everyone wants a pit bull, especially a mixed breed of one, and I’ve been secretly hoping I can talk him into adopting her. I don’t know how I’ll be able to say goodbye to her. I was never allowed to have pets growing up, my mom insisting they were too much work and they smelled and shed, but even with the dog hair that’s frequently sprinkled all over my clothes, I’ve completely fallen in love with her. She seems so much larger than she did a month ago when I met her, and Braxton’s place isn’t exactly the best for a dog as big as she’s going to be, but I still can’t imagine giving her up for anything.

Not that it’s my call.

I hold out another fry, which she steals just as quickly, as Braxton comes into the room.

“Oh, that’s why my girl has no use for me,” he says, heading straight for us. “You’ve stolen her from me with fries and ear rubs.”

“She likes them,” I insist, and scoot over on the couch so he can slide in next to me. It’s become our nightly routine when he gets home from work. We eat, chill on the couch curled up next to each other, and most nights, I wake up as he’s carrying me to bed.