Page 44 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Ten

Beth

The nice college-age girl brought me a cushion, which was sweet, I thought, and probably solely a byproduct of the fact that I’d finally popped.

Not just fat, but definitely preggers.

Which was…interesting.

I’d had my first person touching my belly—unwanted and unwarranted—on the way to pancakes, after having parked my car in the lot at Donna’s.

I’d been on my way to the outlets, always loving to search the racks for a great deal, but as I’d gotten off the freeway, I had seen the sign for Donna’s and had gotten a lark.

Or, rather, a craving.

These babies needed pancakes.

Nutella pancakes with crispy, salty hash browns, and a cup of decaf (and I would also have a glass of water because I was being good).

And then maybe a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.

Because if I was having second breakfast, then I needed hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.

But first, water.

Second, order.

Third, pulling out my Kindle and diving back into my book—a romantic fantasy that was fucking incredible, the world the author had woven so well-developed and amazing and diverting that I wanted to dive in and never escape.

Oh, to be Feyre.

But I lived in the real world, with no magical, devoted, powerful men (there were powerful men and devoted men, but rarely did those worlds collide, and unfortunately none of those men could sprout wings or shoot lightning bolts or best beasts with nary more than their wits and a sword).

So, fantasy.

So using my vibrating friend when all my pregnancy hormones reared their needs and I got really desperate.

Sad.

But that was my life.

Because seriously, swear to Christ, it had been a long time since an actual penis had made friends with my actual vagina.

Plenty of tools and hands and people looking up there.

But all of them were in the business of making a baby—or babies—for Pru and Marcel, and none of them in the business of giving me an orgasm.

So…books.

So…vibrating friends.

So…shopping and chocolate-filled pancakes and my imagination.

That would be enough.

My server came out—today it was Janet—who I was on a first-name basis with because I had come in a lot for pancakes since I’d moved down here.

One, the outlets were nearby for my favorite pastime.

Two, Donna’s had delicious pancakes, Wi-Fi, and if I timed my morning drop-in just right, I could take up a booth until lunchtime and get both pancakes and one of their famous—at least in my book—grilled cheeses.

“Breakfast and lunch today, honey?” Janet asked, pad out and pencil already streaking across the paper.

“Just breakfast,” I told her with a smile when Janet glanced up from that pad and lifted her brows. “Playing hooky from work and having a shopping extravaganza instead.”

Janet smiled, wide enough that she flashed me her crooked eye tooth, and tucked her pencil back behind her ear. “Good for you,” I said. “I know I’ve told you plenty, but you work too hard, especially with those babies cooking.”

“Someone touched my belly today,” I blurted.

Two someones technically.

Though my lightly calloused fingers had been welcome.

The strange woman with the boxer-like (the dog, not the profession) face had all but cornered me in the lot and asked when I was due.

It was…one of those odd wanting to commiserate about the difficulties of being a woman scenarios—or so I thought—because the woman wasn’t mean and didn’t give me weird vibes (other than the whole touching without permission part).

But I wasn’t keen to continue having discussions about my birth plan and/or breastfeeding versus formula with complete strangers.

For one, I hadn’t even thought about it.

For another, I knew that I needed to scratch down researching pumping, how it worked, all the equipment I might need, and how long I should be doing it for the babies.

So, in addition to being subject to talking about boobs and vaginas and things coming out of them, that random woman had now added more things to my To Do list.

Which wasn’t cool.

“Your belly?”

I nodded.

“Did she tack on the horror of her birth story?”

Another nod. “All three of them.”

Janet made a noise of disgust. “Why do people do that?”

“No clue,” I whispered.

Janet shook her head, tucked her pad away. “Me neither, but I do know that Nutella pancakes fix a multitude of ailments.”

“They sure do,” I agreed with a smile.

“Decaf?”

I nodded for a third time. “And hot chocolate with extra whipped cream”—Janet’s mouth tipped up—“and water because the doctor says I need to drink more.”

“On it, sweetie,” Janet said, rapping the table lightly with her knuckles. “You just settle in with your book and let me take care of you.”

You just settle in with your book and let me take care of you.

That wasn’t the first time Janet had said that to me, but it struck me just as hard as though it was the first time.

Because my mom used to say that.

Before…

My vision went watery, but I managed to keep my voice even as I glanced down at my hands, let that blurry vision make my skin go wavy. “Thanks, Janet,” I whispered.

Another rap of her knuckles.

Then she’d left, buzzing around the dining room.

I pretended to focus on getting settled with my e-reader, fussing with getting it positioned just right, but truthfully, I was just buying time to get it together.

You just settle in with your book and let me take care of you.

The chains rattled.

Those doors bowed.

But I forced myself to focus on the page and read, drinking the water that Janet brought then alternating between the coffee and hot cocoa.

A lot of liquid, especially when Janet refilled my water, and I drank it down like the good little patient I was.

Then, of course, because it was a lot of liquid, I spent the next ten minutes wiggling on my cushion but feeling too lazy to get up and pee, and just when it got bad enough for me to consider scooting my ass out of that booth and heading to the bathroom—which was, thankfully, not too far away—Janet returned with my pancakes and hash browns, and I couldn’t leave my food unattended.

Or alone.

Or lonely.

Sitting there and getting cold.

So, I got my wiggle on even as I downed my delicious pancakes and drank my refill of hot cocoa and another glass of water. I stayed on my cushion as I polished off my crispy hash browns with plenty of salt.

And stupidly, I stayed on my cushion in that booth, my plates empty, my cups empty (minus the water glass, which Janet had a spidey sense to refill), and I read until a chapter break.

Because I had to know what happened to my girl.

Because it was hot with an H. O. Double T.

I wasn’t sure that was really a thing, but the scene had me so enthralled I couldn’t even make fun of my own ridiculousness.

But then I finished the chapter, and I was dropped back into my reality.

Eighties explosion. Empty plates and glasses.

No mythical man racing in to save me, to pick me up in his arms, fly me away, and worship me on a mountain top—that worshipping including multiple orgasms and providing me with a whole new wardrobe.

Nope.

No magic. No flying.

Just Janet casually having placed the bill at the end of the table, leaving me to my fantasies.

Just me and those fantasies and a good book and two babies that didn’t belong to me happily wiggling in my belly. And a bladder that was full and getting wiggled on and required immediate attention.

So…bill. Bathroom. Shopping.

I slipped some cash from my wallet—enough to pay for my food and leave a generous tip—chugged down the last of the water, and packed up my Kindle.

Then I slid out of the booth.

A little too fast because my head went spinny.

But I paused and sat at the edge of the booth, ignoring my bladder, breathing slow and deep and then trying again, knowing I had the ticket the second time around because there were no spots at the edges of my vision.

Then I was on my feet.

Then I was steady, and the babies were safe.

And then, finally, I hightailed it to the bathroom.