Pretty Little Mistake

Lennon and I are seated at my small kitchen table to call into the office for the meeting that will determine our future.

That’s a bit dramatic of me, but the way Jaci has framed this thing, it sure feels like it.

Which is crazy, considering it’s not like we get any sort of prize or anything.

I think her motivation was to force us to work in teams, to get creative, and since she can be a bit off the wall, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she said this was one giant experiment she conducted to see how her staff handles group projects.

“You look stressed,” Lennon whisper-hisses, despite the fact that we haven’t been connected to the meeting yet. “You’re turning red.”

I let out the breath I was holding. “I’m fine.” I reach for my cup of coffee.

“Hey.” She places her hand on top of mine. “Whatever happens, it’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

It’s funny that she’s the one reassuring me when our whole proposal was her idea, and I know what it would mean to her to be chosen.

“Regardless of what happens, we make a good team.”

I look at her a moment, letting her words sink in. “We do, don’t we?”

Jaci chooses that moment to connect us to the meeting.

“Ah,” Jaci says, clicking something on the screen, “it’s so good to see your faces. How are you feeling, Lennon?”

“Doing good.” She forces a smile, giving her a thumbs-up.

The meeting gets underway, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s purposely trying to drag it out or if Jaci is just that oblivious to the fact that everyone wants to know who’s won this not-really-a-competition.

She discusses elements she wants revised for next month’s magazine, photos she wants to see other shots of because she’s not sold on the current selections, and then finally, blessedly, she says, “Now, on to the spring print issue.”

Beside me, Lennon grabs for my hand, her nails digging into my skin.

Jaci touches on each team, lightly going over what they proposed.

“Everyone’s ideas were brilliant, and I feel like you all got into the spirit of things—thinking deep, outside-the-box thoughts. You all have put me in a tough position, because there is no bad or wrong choice here; in fact, I think many of these ideas can be used in future editions. I have this vision, you see”—she paces away from the camera, where we can still hear but not see her—“of Real Point becoming something big. More than a magazine. I want to be a staple that people talk about.” She breezes back in front of the camera, speaking animatedly with her hands. “And that is why I’m choosing Lennon and Beckham’s proposal for the spring issue.”

Beside me, Lennon’s hand falls away from mine. She gasps, slapping her hands to her mouth. On the computer, Jaci laughs, beaming at us when she appears back on screen.

“You both presented such a compelling idea, and it’s so pertinent to the world we live in. I want you to focus on your interviews and compiling everything. I want the whole issue to revolve around this concept, down to the brand deals we make.”

Lennon vibrates with excitement beside me. Judging by Jaci’s knowing smile, she notices her excitement.

She goes on for another ten minutes or so about how many interviews she wants us to include, as well as ones that we’ve already done that she wants us to refine more, and then she touches on a few other things before the meeting ends and Lennon and I are alone once more.

Unless you count Cheddar and George Sanderson. In that case, we’re never alone.

She wraps her hand around my neck, pulling me down to her level. “We did it.” She crashes her lips into mine.

“You did it,” I remind her. “This was all your idea.”

“You agreed.”

“Because it was a fucking great idea. Now, come on.” I slide off the chair. “We need to get your feet up.”

With a sigh, she stands, hand to her belly. “You’re so lucky you’re worth it, little nugget.”

“She wants to be dramatic like her mom.”

Lennon’s eyes narrow on me, and I’m pretty sure she’s seconds away from hissing at me like one of the cats. “More like her father.”

My eyes widen. “You said her.” A slow smile tugs my lips as I help her into the rocker that takes up a large amount of real estate in my living room.

“It was a reflex because you’re always saying it,” she gripes, adjusting her shirt over her expanding belly.

“Are you sure your mother’s intuition isn’t kicking in?”

She purses her lips in thought. “No, sadly it was just an automatic response. I think I’m broken.”

I grab her cup of water and set it on the table beside her within easy reaching distance. “You’re not broken.”

“How can you be so sure? Have you ever been a mother?” Her eyes twinkle with laughter.

“No, can’t say I have.” Her favorite blanket is on the back of the couch. I pick it up and cover her legs with it.

She cradles her stomach, sighing heavily. “This sucks. I can’t even properly nest.”

I nearly trip over Cheddar—no, that’s George Sanderson—when I take a step back. “What do you mean, nest?”

“You know, nesting.” She gestures with her hands. “It’s where you get everything ready for baby. I haven’t gotten anything yet. The baby will be here before we know it. Summer is around the corner.”

“It’s the beginning of February,” I point out. “You have plenty of time.”

“I really don’t.” I see the stress rising inside her. “A lot of stuff, like furniture and whatnot, takes time to get here, and where am I going to send it anyway? Here? What if you decide you don’t want me to stay? And I need things like a stroller, and a car seat. I mean, even though this is Manhattan, you do have a car, and just in case I’d need to take a taxi, I should definitely have one, right? And—”

I put my hand over her mouth, silencing whatever she plans to say next. “I want to show you something.”

I let my hand fall away. “Show me what?” She eyes me skeptically.

Wiggling my hand in front of her to help her up, I say, “Can’t you trust me?”

She gives me a curious smile. “Okay.”

I slide her hand into mine and help her up from the rocker. “I wasn’t going to show you this yet.” I lead her down the short hall, yanking the key from my pocket as we go. “It’s not ready, not just yet. But . . .”

I unlock the door to the spare bedroom, the one I’ve kept her out of, and let it swing open. Afternoon light filters into the room.

Shocked, wide brown eyes blink at me, her pink lips parted.

“Go on,” I encourage her. “Take a look.”

She takes a tentative step forward, then another. I’m right beside her. Logically, I know she isn’t at risk of falling, at least not yet, but I can’t help but hover. Especially since she’s not on her feet a lot and is getting weaker because of it.

“You . . . you did all this?” She turns, my hand hovering at her side. “The . . . the paint on your clothes? You painted this? The room?” She points to the cream-colored walls.

“I can be handy when I want to be.”

“And . . . and the crib. It’s the one I said I liked at the store that day. The sheets too. You listened.”

“I did.” I look around, trying to see the room through her eyes.

I’ve been working on it ever since that day she went to the baby store, and I joined her. At the time I wasn’t thinking about her living with me, and when I placed the order, I was just going to give everything to her, but things changed, and now she’s here. I always planned to turn this space into a nursery for the baby, but with her living here, I wanted it to be the room she dreamed of.

“Did you put all this stuff together?”

“The crib and stroller. The dresser was delivered built.”

“You did all this for the baby?”

“For the baby and you,” I correct. “Once the baby comes, I’ll move the rocker into this spot.” I point to the blank space in the room. “I thought you might like it by the window so you could look out and rock the baby at the same time. I haven’t gotten clothes yet or anything like that. The dresser is empty. You can order whatever you want. I’ll even give you my credit card.”

She cracks a smile, her eyes filled with tears. “You’ve done more than enough. This is . . . this is amazing, Beckham. It’s beautiful.” She rubs her fingers over the fabric of the striped curtains. The lady at the store helped me pick them. She said they matched the bedding. “I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful room for our baby if I tried.”

“Please, don’t cry. I don’t want you to cry, honeybee.” I tug her into my arms, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m happy, I promise. This is so beautiful, Beckham. I can’t believe you did all this for our baby. I can’t wait to bring them home from the hospital to this amazing room their daddy made for them.”

Daddy. I haven’t let myself think too much on how that’s what I’ll be soon. Someone’s father. I just . . . fuck, I just want to be a good one. Not perfect, that doesn’t exist, but good.

“Thank you.” She wraps her arms around me, chin resting on my chest. “You’re incredible.”

“Pretty sure you didn’t think that when you hated me.”

“You broke my heart,” she reminds me. “It was easy to hate you—but need I remind you, you hated me too. Why was that? I didn’t do anything to you.”

“No, but your family did, and I think you got the brunt of my anger because I felt like if I hadn’t liked you the way that I did, then none of it would’ve happened. I would’ve still been friends with your brother and in your life in some way.”

She stiffens at the mention of her brother, pulling away from my body. She grips the railing on the crib, knuckles paling. “I’m so angry at him,” she hisses softly. She looks over at me with pain etched into the lines of her face. I want to smooth them away, take the agony from her. I hate that I ever hurt her, and I wish I could keep anyone else from doing the same. “What a fucking weasel.”

I shouldn’t laugh right now, but hearing Lennon refer to Hunter as a weasel sends me into a fit of hysterics.

“What?” she asks innocently, starting to giggle. “He is! You know he is. He cares more about saving face for our father than standing up for the right thing.”

Sobering, I clear my throat. “Maybe one day he’ll get his priorities straight.”

“Yeah, and his head out of our dad’s ass.” She snorts, making me laugh again with her.

Once we collect ourselves, she takes in the room again. I still need to patch some spots on the walls, and hang a mirror by the closet, and there’s the bookcase I want to build, too, but—

“I can’t believe we’re going to bring our baby home here. Think of all the memories they’ll make in this room.”

I hadn’t even thought about that, which seems ironic, since I put together this bedroom for our kid, but thinking about them living in it, growing, is a crazy thing to wrap my head around.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Fuck, I sound idiotic asking that.

Lennon doesn’t say that, though. Instead, she smiles, hugging me again. “Trust me, they’re going to love it . . . and love you even more.”

I lay the side of my cheek against the top of her head and smile.

This, I realize, is what I’ve always wanted but was too blinded by other things to realize: a family.