Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(62)

But he kept it.

At night, I’d lie in bed and remember his kiss, his touch, his hot, hard body over mine. Sounds he made and words he’d growled. Secrets he’d shared and those I’d given up. The intensity of our connection. The pulse of his orgasm inside me. The soft, quiet moments afterward, lying in his arms. The final morning I’d woken up and thought, maybe . . . maybe.

But it had only been a dream. Or worse—a game of make-believe. Whatever I’d imagined between us was clearly one-sided. And if I gave into the temptation to be with him again, I’d only be handing him the chance to break my heart for real. I hadn’t lasted all this time—years of resisting the pull of him—to fall apart now. I just needed to stay strong and wait out this agonizing interim where he was here, but not with me.

Weeks went by this way.

A month.

The snow melted, Abelard and Etoile were swamped over Valentine’s Day, and an early thaw meant spring tourism would pick up even sooner than usual. I kept my nose to the grindstone and focused on my job—there was plenty to do between pruning and planting in the vineyard and working the floor at Etoile at night. I was beyond exhausted when my head finally hit the pillow. Winnie and I also planned summer events for guests, and every day I saw the glow on her face grow more radiant when she spoke about her hopes for the future with Dex.

In the meantime, I grew more grouchy and sullen. My complexion, always pale in winter, grew sallow and greenish. I didn’t feel right in my skin, and all I wanted to do was nap or eat junk. My bad ankle still hurt, and my foot got weirdly swollen—actually both my feet. I was in a bitter, foul mood all the time, nothing could lift me out of it—not Friends, not peanut butter and M&M’s, not even wine, which didn’t even appeal to me these days. I figured it was my body’s way of telling me I’d been consuming too much sugar, alcohol, and salt, so I cut them from my diet and tried to get more exercise and more sleep. But March arrived, and I still felt bloated and exhausted all the time. Then one day I went to get dressed for work and popped the button off my pants trying to get them on.

At first, I just rolled my eyes at the annoyance—I was already running late and didn’t have time to sew a button. I was rifling through the hangers in my closet, hunting for another pair of pants that would fit my bloated belly when something occurred to me.

I froze.

How long had it been since I’d gotten my period?

I couldn’t remember.

Okay, don’t panic, I told myself, calmly walking over to my bathroom. I looked under my sink and took out a box of tampons—it was unopened. Had I emptied a previous box and forgotten about it? I stared at my wretched face in the mirror and tried to think. I’d had one period in early January for sure . . . but after that, I couldn’t recall one.

My heart began to pound. Was it possible I was pregnant?

With Gianni Lupo’s baby?

I dropped the box of tampons and put both palms to my hot cheeks. No. No way. Gianni had worn a condom every time.

Except for those five minutes against the wall…

No.

I hurried out of the bathroom, refusing to believe it. There was no way those five minutes could have such catastrophic consequences.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time—just after nine. If I hurried, I could make it to the pharmacy and back before my eleven o’clock tasting. I’d have to cancel coffee with Winnie downstairs, but I’d make up an excuse like a headache or something. She knew I hadn’t been well.

And I was scared if I said the thing out loud, I might manifest it.

Trading my work blouse for a sweatshirt, I threw on a pair of jeans, shoved my pudgy feet into sneakers, and headed out.





Less than one hour later, I was back in my bathroom, staring at a big fat plus sign and trying not to be sick.

Two plus signs, actually, because I’d been sure the first test in the box had given me an erroneous reading. But I’d taken the second one and gotten the same result.

The test was positive.

I was pregnant.

My vision blurred and swam. Squeezing my eyes shut, I grabbed onto the sink and took a few deep breaths. When I opened them again, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was gray. My eyes were bloodshot.

I was pregnant.

Dropping to my knees, I vomited into the toilet until my stomach was empty, my entire body shook, and tears streamed down my face.

I curled into a ball on my bathroom floor and lay there sobbing, pounding a fist against the tile floor. This was so unfair! It was just a blizzard bang! It wasn’t supposed to have permanent consequences! I was only twenty-three and totally unprepared for motherhood! And what about Gianni? Jesus Christ, if ever there was a guy unfit to father a child at twenty-three, it was Gianni Lupo.

What were we going to do?

At some point, I realized I couldn’t stay on my bathroom floor all day—I had responsibilities at work. Guests were waiting for me. My family was counting on me.

I dragged myself off the floor and did the best I could to clean up my face, avoiding the sight of those pregnancy tests. In my closet, I found a pair of pants that fit and a top that I didn’t have to tuck in. I pulled my hair back, covered my splotchy face with makeup, disguised my puffy red eyes with liner and shadow, and applied the brightest red lipstick I had, hoping it would distract people’s eyes from anything else on my face.