He chuckles again, his eyes falling to my rounded stomach and flaring. “So…wow…you’re pregnant,” he murmurs, the statement rocking me to my core. I know I am. I know. And yet, still, having Remington Winslow point it out to me in a random New York elevator feels like an out-of-body experience.
My hand travels to my belly button reflexively, and blind panic seizes at least eighty percent of my organs. For a minute, I almost forgot my reality—I am pregnant. Almost full-term and just a couple of weeks away from my official due date, in fact.
“Uh…well…”
His eyes meet mine, and it’s the same look I’ve seen from other people who have noticed my current miracle-of-life state. Curiosity makes the blue of his eyes lighter, and his silent questions are most likely ones I have no idea how to answer out loud.
Holy mackerel, how do I even begin to explain this…complicated situation?
Oh, well, you see, Remy, I am pregnant, but the baby’s not mine genetically. My sister was having a hard time getting pregnant, and I agreed to be her surrogate. Her gestational carrier, to be specific. It felt like a brilliant idea at the time, getting to help my sister’s baby dreams come true, and then, once this little bambino was born, I’d get to play the role of fun aunt. And it was all going to plan…for about three months into this pregnancy. Isabella and Oliver were over-the-moon excited. Truthfully, we were all excited. Until, you know, six months ago when my sister and brother-in-law died in a helicopter crash. Now, I’m challenged with raising this baby alone without a fucking, fucking clue what I’m doing. And most days, I feel like I’m one breath away from a nervous breakdown.
Yeah. Great small talk.
“Yeah… Your eyes are not playing tricks on you. I am pregnant,” I eventually say, choosing to keep the details of my situation out of the conversation, while trying hard to keep the sound of despair out of my voice. The intricacies of my pregnant state are a little too complex for pleasant chitchat.
The elevator lets out a high-pitched squeal, and that’s when both of us realize we’ve been too busy staring at each other to push the buttons for our floors.
Remy grins. “What floor do you need?”
“Twenty-second.”
He presses the button for me and then taps the one for the twenty-fourth floor too.
The cart jolts as it begins its ascent, and Remy’s eyes glance down at my rounded belly again.
“Congratulations, by the way,” he says with a tender smile that slices through my shield and grazes against the recesses of my pain.
“Thanks.” I lick my lips and look to the ground to gather myself, but when the elevator jolts erratically, I’m knocked off-balance and right back into Remy’s body.
And seconds later, everything turns to pitch-black darkness.
I scream a little—I can’t help it—and he immediately squeezes the flesh of my arms to reassure me. “It’s okay. I think we just lost power for a bit. Should come back on soon.”
Claustrophobia isn’t an affliction I struggle with on a regular basis, but something about being trapped in utter darkness with the guy I once thought was my soul mate while pregnant with my sister’s baby and on the brink of throwing up is really triggering a flare-up. Go figure.
But the light never comes, and the continued darkness inside this far-too-small elevator cart urges a wave of nausea to grab ahold of my body like a vise.
I try to breathe deeply, but before I know what’s happening, I’m heaving, and Remy is lowering me down to the floor and gently pushing my head between my legs. “It’s okay, Maria. Just breathe,” he coaches calmly, falling to his ass beside me and rubbing a reassuring hand up and down my back.
I nod, trying to put him at ease, but before I know it, I’m heaving again. I swear, if I throw up in this elevator, just kill me now. Seriously, God. Just yeet me into the universe because I’ll never make it back from that.
My hair is lifted off my neck then, and a breeze of cool air blows across my damp, overheated skin. Remy shifts slightly beside me, and then I feel the air again, tickling over the tiny hairs at the back of my neck. It’s not exactly the refreshing feel of air conditioning, but compared to the suffocating summer heat and darkness, it feels like an ice bath.
“Thank you,” I murmur carefully, not wanting to tempt vomit fate by opening my mouth for too long.
“Of course,” Remy whispers and leans closer to me once more to softly blow across my neck.
Holy hell in a handbasket, how didn’t I realize that’s where the cool air was coming from?