Page 59 of Restored Dreams

“Why would you say that?” Her brows lift, and her expression would be almost comical if I wasn’t on the verge of tears.

“Look, we had a great time together. I won’t lie and say we didn’t. I won’t say it was a mistake or that I regret it, it’s just…Lauren’s death was a sign that Brut and I were never meant to be.”

Midge pats my arm. “Honey, this might be a sign that you are.”

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Two days later, I’m lying in my bed. I can’t seem to handle some of the smells in the bakery kitchen without feeling nauseous. The doctor says I’m only six weeks along. I’d feel better if I made it to three months before telling anyone, but at the rate I’m going, I’ll need another worker. I can’t stomach the stench of combinations I normally love.

Footsteps pound up my stairs. Ester has heavy feet for a little thing. She doesn’t know how to walk lightly even for her small stature. I should really have a door installed at the bottom of the staircase for some privacy, but I’ve never considered it before. The open concept of my loft allows me to hear most of the workings of the bakery below.

“How’s it going down there?” My back remains to her as I mumble toward the wall. I’ve left her in charge again after trying to make it through another unproductive morning.

“What’s the matter with you?” The sharp male voice makes me spin on the bed, and I stare up at Brut.

Midge!

“I’m not feeling well. Just needed to lie down a bit.” I sit up slowly, allowing the room to spin a moment. I reach for another tissue. I seem to have developed allergies as well as growing a human inside me. My hand hovers toward my stomach, but I force it down to my knee. I’m not ready to tell Brut.

To my surprise, he folds to squat before me. His hands come to my knees without thought. I’ve missed his touch so much. The innocent act of his palm on my kneecaps prickles my nose, and I blink at the moisture threatening my eyes. I use the tissue to disguise my emotions.

“What’s wrong?”

I wave him off. “Just a cold.”

His brows pinch as he searches my face. My fingers twitch to reach out for his stubbled jaw.

“Can I get you anything?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Midge told me you were sick. Said I should check on you.”

I stand with some effort. The room sways a little, and I hold out my arms to steady myself. My stomach roils.

“Thank you, but I don’t need you to check on me because Midge told you to. I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“So you once told me.” My head snaps up to face him, but I see he’s teasing me. His hands slip into the pockets of his jeans as he watches me. I move to step around him, but the nausea comes fast.

“Oh shit,” I mumble, covering my mouth and racing for the bathroom just behind him. I crumple to the floor before the toilet, heaving though I know nothing will come up. My stomach suddenly has a force like no other, but nothing inside it to release.

“This doesn’t look good, sugar.” My eyes close at the endearment as I face the inner bowl. Please God, don’t torture me anymore. I will Brut away, but instead, he’s crowding me in my small bathroom.

“I’m okay,” I lie, shaking from the retching reflex. I struggle to stand, using the seat to hoist myself up. Thinking of what I’ve just done, I immediately reach for the sink and wash my hands. As I stand, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, the tender heat of Brut’s hand comes to my lower back. I blink several times, forcing back more menacing tears. He needs to leave before I’m even more of a mess.

“See, I’m good,” I say to my hands, avoiding the eyes I feel searching for mine in the reflection of my mirror.

“You don’t look so good.” My head shoots up at the insult to discover he’s right. I’m ghostly pale. My lips too light. My eyes too large. I need to lie down again. It will pass. It just takes a little bit.

I try to stand taller, but Brut’s hand doesn’t leave my back. He walks me to my bed and guides me down to the mattress.

“Let me get you some crackers…or some tea.”

“I’m good,” I mutter, motioning toward a small bowl on my nightstand. I keep the saltines handy although the thought of eating one makes me feel nauseous again. Brut squats again, staring at me. I can’t handle the intensity, and my eyes close under the pressure. A cool hand comes to my forehead, brushing my hair back, tucking it behind my ear.

“That feels nice,” I murmur, though I shouldn’t be encouraging anything. He continues to stroke my temple and around my ear, and as I’m slowly drifting off, I imagine I hear, “I miss you, Lily pad.”

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