Well, it could happen again. But only if you’d call him.
Despite my inner voice’s urgency, it’s pretty damn obvious why now isn’t an optimal time to get in touch with Remington Winslow again. I mean, what’s he going to do? Help me figure out how to use a breast pump while I have a newborn crying over our attempts at chitchat?
Yeah. No thank you. No one deserves that kind of chaos in their life. Especially not Remy.
As the elevator starts to make its journey up the building, I take several deep breaths and concentrate on getting myself together. I’m sweating profusely despite the crisp breeze of air conditioning, and my lower back is so tight it feels like I’ve rammed a rod inside it. Mrs. Allistair’s inspection of this place will no doubt be swifter than some of my other buyers, but I’m still going to need to slap on a smile and walk her through.
Unfortunately, my belly decides it’s the perfect time to tighten in a way you can see through my silk blouse, and I inhale a sharp, deep breath through my nose and release it out of my mouth as quietly as I can.
You’re fine, Maria. You’re fine. It’s just a summer pregnancy. Millions of women deal with this every day.
I find a place of calm inside myself and smile over at Lukas, whose eyebrows have now pulled together in concern as he stares at my protruding, hard belly. I wave him off silently from my position behind my client and shake my head.
I’m good. Really, I’m good. Any woman who is full-term pregnant in August looks like this, I swear.
As the elevator opens on the top floor of the building, Lukas presents his arm again but this time doesn’t move with us.
“I’ve unlocked the door for your ease of entry and will be downstairs if you need anything. Anything at all. Please, don’t hesitate to call for me,” he tells me gently as I follow Mrs. Allistair off and to the door across the hall. She opens it without pause, and I have no choice but to follow, smiling and waving at Lukas as I go.
Once inside, I kick off my shoes and start flipping on light switches as fast as I can. “This is the formal living room and parlor, and another living area is down the hall, adjacent to the kitchen.”
“Window cleaning?” Mrs. Allistair asks brusquely.
“Once a week.”
She nods then, clomping down the hallway in her heels without even considering removing them.
“Mrs. Allistair,” I call, hoping she’s not scuffing the floors. “Would you mind removing your heels as a courtesy to the sellers?”
“I mind,” she says simply, disappearing deeper and deeper into the apartment.
A pain shoots from my lower back and stretches across my belly, and it’s all I can do not to scream. Evidently, even the fetus inside me can feel the effects of snobby people.
Once the discomfort passes, I sigh and do the only thing I can do—follow Mrs. Allistair around this large apartment as she scrutinizes every nook and cranny.
Please, let this showing go quick.
Thirty minutes later and Mrs. Allistair has walked through every room, outwardly commented on anything that annoys her, and has remained unreadable on whether she even likes this apartment.
Normally, I’d do my best to coax her into a conversation that would help me figure out where her head is at with this place, but I’m too damn exhausted and uncomfortable to care. Completely unlike me, but I blame it on the heat and tiny human that appears to be throwing a party inside my uterus.
“I’ll be in touch, Maria,” Mrs. Allistair eventually says, but her attention is completely invested in the screen of her phone. Without another word, she walks out the front door of the apartment and departs with a short wave over her shoulder and a murmured “Ta!”
My stomach tightens, and a pain shoots from the back of my hip and finds a home inside my pelvic bone. Goodness gracious. I breathe through my mouth until the door shuts behind my client and then find the only relief I can by bending over to lean into the wall.
I don’t know if it’s the heat or the weight of my stomach or what, but God, these pains are becoming a real nuisance. Of course, since my due date isn’t for another two days, I know they’re probably what Dr. Maddox calls Braxton-Hicks—aka fake contractions. Nothing more than my body practicing going into labor.
At this rate, my uterus must be training for Olympic gold.
Since I have another showing in half an hour and it’s located two blocks away, I try not to dillydally closing up the apartment. Or, you know, standing here dealing with these stupid fake contractions.
Once the pain eases a little, I stand back up straight and make my way through the three-thousand-square-foot apartment, shutting off lights and ensuring nothing is out of place. These owners might be summering in the Mediterranean for another four weeks, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t know if I left their place anything but spotless.