“Antonio—”
“You can yell at me once we’re inside and you’re in bed.” I bend and scoop her into my arms before she can protest further.
Inside, the house smells faintly of the products the cleaning service used yesterday.
Sunlight creeps through the windows, flooding the open living space with warmth. Beyond the glass, the lake stretches out silver and still, with early morning mist hovering above the water.
Jasmine turns her head to take it all in. “This is your idea of a lake house?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s just...” She shifts slightly, wincing. “Huge!”
“My mother’s idea. She was convinced I’d need room for...” I stop, suddenly aware of the irony. “Family.”
Jasmine’s hand drifts to her stomach. Then she drops it back to her side.
“The guest room is down this way.”
I carry her past the kitchen, past my office, to the guestroom at the end of the hall. It’s the nicest one besides the primary, with a queen bed, cream linens and a reading chair positioned by thewindow to catch the lake view. I’d asked the cleaning service to make it up fresh, and someone had added a vase of wildflowers on the nightstand.
“Just so you’re aware, there are cameras set up in the main areas and my office,” I say as I lower Jasmine carefully onto the edge of the bed.
She nods, already sinking into the mattress with a sigh of relief.
“Your bathroom’s through that door.” I nod toward the en suite, then set her duffel on the luggage rack by the closet. “Let me know if you need anything. Extra blankets, pillows, whatever.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything. You didn’t have to do any of it.”
“Yeah, I did.”
She looks at me then, and I see exhaustion and confusion. It causes pressure to build under my ribs.
The doorbell rings.
“That’s breakfast,” I say, already backing toward the door. “Give me a second.”
I jog to the front entrance and grab the bag from the delivery driver. I ordered it on the drive here, right after Jasmine fell asleep in the car.
When I get back to her room, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like she might topple over.
“You ordered food?”
“You need to eat.” I set the bag on the dresser and pull out containers. “Doctor’s orders.”
I don’t mention that ordering food is going to be our primary survival strategy for the foreseeable future. My kitchen skills begin and end with coffee, and even that’s questionable without the machine.
I’d already set up accounts with every delivery service that reaches this far out of the city. The nearest town has a café that does breakfast, a bistro that handles lunch and dinner, and a grocery store that delivers. Between the three of them, we won’t starve.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.” I hand her the container of scrambled eggs with a fork balanced on top.
She takes it but doesn’t open it. “Why are you doing this?”
I stop unpacking the food. “Because you’re carrying my daughter,” I respond.
It’s the simplest answer. The truest one.
