Crazy in Love

I rush to the toilet and lift the lid. The thought of throwing up messes with my head, and I’m not sure if that’s making me sick or . . . Surely not . . .

Paranoia sets in, ready to ruin my happiness.

I’m not pregnant. Don’t be ridiculous, Tatum.

I pad through the apartment back to the front door to pull my phone from my bag and check my period app again. That icon a shining star as if that can make up for the monthly pain women have to endure. I scroll down the page, and yesterday’s date is highlighted as the first day of my period.

That can’t be.

With the phone in hand, I run to find the calendar I keep in the kitchen. I track the dates by the foods I eat each day, so I don’t have to wonder why I’m suddenly five pounds heavier. I flip to last month and then compare on the app.

My breath stops hard in my chest just as a text pops onto the screen.

Harrison: I got here early because I can’t wait to see you. No hurry, but I’m parked out front in the black car when you’re ready.

My heart slides into my throat like a lump I can’t swallow down.

I’ve met the sweetest man I’ve ever known and now . . . well, I don’t know what now. I need to take a test and put this worry of the unknown behind me.

The unknown. I sigh.

My old familiar enemy. I’m never allowed too much happiness.

I was embracing the unknown not long ago, as long as I was in it with him.

Holding tight to the good memories, I finish getting dressed and then head downstairs in a slight daze.

The doorman opens the door, and there he is—the best sight in the world. I could cry if I let my emotions continue to get the better of me. I won’t, though. Seeing him in a dark suit and tie against the backdrop of a white shirt, Harrison is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. His dark blond hair layered on top hangs just over his forehead. It’s shorter than when I met him, but still so California that I can’t help but want to run my fingers through it. He even looks tanner. I guess it’s from all that surfing he said he did.

“You’re breathtaking,” he says, coming toward me with a bouquet of sad-looking bent and broken orange poppies, actually sounding out of breath. Oh, my sweet man.

He hands them to me and then kisses me on the cheek. He’s also a wise man to know not to mess up a woman’s lipstick unless she wants you to. But it’s been a week. I want him to.

Throwing my arms around him, we embrace like we mean it. “I missed you so much,” I say.

“I missed you more than you’ll ever know.” With my head tucked against him, I close my eyes and savor his words and the feel of him again. He kisses the top of my head, and when I finally look up, he says, “Hi,” like we’re not standing in the middle of New York City, but alone in the apartment just the two of us.

“Hi.” Screw it. I mess up my lipstick and kiss him. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”

“They’re poppies. I carried them on the flight. They don’t last long once cut.”

And my knees weaken from the sweetness. Holding the bouquet to my nose, I say, “They’re perfect. My doorman can deliver them to the apartment.” We drop them off and then head for the car. When I dip to get inside the car, the corner store catches my eyes, and I step back out again. Standing against him, I place my hands on his chest. “Do you mind if I pop into the store real fast?”

He glances behind him and then turns back. “I can run and get it for you.”

“No,” I reply, moving around him. Walking backward, I encourage him into the car. “I’ll be quick.”

“I’ll be here.” His smile could knock a woman on her ass if she’s not careful. If I weren’t on a mission, I’d be running into his arms and jumping that hunk of a man.

Not wanting to keep him waiting. I grab a two-pack of tests, avoiding the cashier’s eyes. After I pay, I rip the box open and dispose of it and then tuck the tests safely inside my clutch to hide. No sense in ruining our reunion by worrying him.

21

Tatum

Silverware clangs.

Crystal glasses chime in celebratory toasts.

Dinner plates are delivered full and then swiftly cleared after dinner.

Voices fill the space, but they’re all indistinguishable in hushed tones. Just white noise in the chaotic restaurant.

Except one.

One breaks through my thoughts.

“Tate?”

My gaze returns to my dinner date, the dashing Mr. Decker. “Yeah?”