Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family 7)

“Wait for her to return, like she asked,” Summer insists. “I think she really wants to focus on the training so she makes the final cut.”

Tapping my fingers on the table, I start whipping up a plan. I’ll need it to be solid, and it will involve textbook groveling. I will not lose this woman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Clara

The training is a ten-hours-a-day deal. They put the six of us together with a dozen candidates for their children’s nonfiction department, since most of the techniques the trainer teaches can be applied no matter the illustration type. We receive a lot of individual feedback. It’s intensive as hell, and even more competitive than I thought. Since everyone knows they’re only going to hire three out of six for the fiction illustrator positions, tensions are high between us. Everyone’s polite, of course, but the negative vibes...yikes.

“Ms. Abernathy, these lines could be sharper. Focus on them,” the trainer says. He’s a tall man, maybe a few years older than I am. The trainer’s feedback motivates me to do my very best and kick ass. What doesn’t go with ass kicking? Lack of coffee, moderate consumption of sugar, heartbreak, visions of Christmases where I’m the only one putting presents for Beanie under the tree—I’m calling the baby Beanie until I know the sex; it’s sweet, but not emasculating, and it only vaguely sounds like Blakie.

On the second day, I add morning sickness to the mix. The hotel is just a block away from the headquarters, but if I don’t head out soon, I’m going to have to miss breakfast so I’m not late. Since I had no morning sickness until now, I was hoping to go through the pregnancy unscathed. After spending fifteen minutes with my head in the toilet, all those hopes go to hell in a handbasket.

After calming down, I wash my face and return to the room with small, tentative steps, sitting on the bed, sniffing myself, because I have a suspicion I still stink of vomit.

Sniff. Sniff. Blech. Suspicion confirmed.

I’ll have to hop in the shower. Judging by the nausea at the back of my throat, I’ll have to skip breakfast anyway.

I’m halfway to the bathroom when there is a knock at my door. Reluctantly, I change direction. One of the receptionists is in front of my door, carrying a huge bouquet of sunflowers.

“Ms. Abernathy, we had these delivered for you,” she quips, jerking her head back in alarm when I lean in to take the flowers. My fabulous Eau de Vomit must have reached her. Poor woman.

She scurries away and I shut the door, bringing the flowers to the small desk in a corner. I itch to read the card that came with them. I can see it, wedged between the green stems of the sunflowers. The second I put the flowers on the small table, I snatch the card from them. The writing on the card belongs to Blake.

I am proud of you. You’ll kick ass and get the job. I know it.

Blake

I turn the card. No more words. Was there a second card and it got lost? One that said I’m sorry? And possibly I love you and Beanie, but I’m working on not getting my hopes up too much. Hint: it’s not working.

I look between the flowers, but...nothing. Right. Grabbing my phone, I call Blake right away. He answers after the first ring.

“You got the flowers?”

“And the card. I’m thinking there were two and one got lost.”

“Nah, it was all a ruse.”

“What?”

“I wanted to talk to you, but you asked me not to call you. Knew you’d call me right away if I sent that card.”

My heart hammers so fast, I need to sit down. “You’re being sneaky again.”

“Always for a good cause.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s good because I have a lot of talking to do. Just listen. I’m sorry for my knee-jerk reaction. I didn’t mean it. I am thrilled about the baby and I love you and—”

“Wait.” As much as I want him to love me, I need to get something out of the way. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I—we can work everything out with the baby so you’re part of its life. But don’t say you love me just because of the baby. Don’t get my hopes up if you don’t mean it.”

Well, too late anyway, because I can feel hope swelling in my chest already, desperately wishing he means it.

“I do mean it, Clara. I love you. That evening I was planning a big dinner, asking you to officially move in, make a love declaration.”

“You were?” I whisper.