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Though Jo Ellen had short hair, it was styled to perfection. It was dark brown just like every other member of her family’s, but she had hers frosted with thick blonde highlights and sprayed into a neat, fashionable pose. B.J. had to keep herself from reaching up to make sure her ponytail wasn’t hanging limp. She hadn’t touched her mane since that morning after taking a shower.
The kitchen was as immaculate as the front room. With sparkling white cabinets and counters, it looked brand new and extra clean.
In the depth of her brain, she wondered if Amy had been such a good housekeeper too. B.J. guessed she had. She used to give off that aura of perfection just like Jo Ellen did.
“I made cinnamon rolls.” Jo Ellen opened the oven and pulled out a pan where she’d been warming them. As she turned to find B.J. fallen to a stop, she grinned. “When I was pregnant, I was utterly ravenous for sweets. I couldn’t get enough of them.”
She held out the tray of still-warm rolls. B.J. stared at them, heard her stomach growl for a taste and cautiously lifted her face to the woman offering them, expecting some kind of ulterior motive behind such a kind act, like maybe as soon as she reached for a roll, the floor would open under her and she’d fall into the dungeon below.
Jo Ellen frowned, obviously curious as to why her guest wasn’t immediately snatching a roll. Not wanting to offend, B.J. shrugged and followed her stomach’s advice, scooping up one and bringing it to her mouth.
Grady’s sister beamed in approval. “Mama told me how much coffee turned your stomach, so I bought some juice. That’ll be good for the baby.”
When she poured a glass full of apple cider and nudged it encouragingly in front of B.J., B.J. paused and eyed it warily. Suddenly, the entire visit felt like one big trap.
Lifting her gaze, she said, “If you’re oozing all this kindness in order to make me feel like slime for putting your brother through nine months of worry-ridden hell, then you’re doing a damn fine job.”
Jo Ellen smiled as she picked up her own cinnamon roll and nibbled off an end. “Well, thank you,” she said, as if complimented. “But, no, that wasn’t my intent.”
“Then. . .?” B.J. pressed, giving her an impatient look.
Jo Ellen sighed, sat down her roll and picked up a napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth. “B.J.,” she said patiently. “This baby you’re having is going to be my son’s first cousin, my son’s only cousin within a hundred miles. So I think it’s pertinent we get to know each other. Besides, you’re going to need a lot of help in the next few months to come, and I don’t want you to be left out in the dark.”
“Help?” B.J. asked blankly.
Jo Ellen’s face softened. “Honey,” she said, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on top of B.J.’s. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into? You’re going to have a baby. A baby.”
B.J. blanched. “Oh, God,” she said. Why did Jo Ellen have to go and remind her? She’d been doing so good at avoiding that little detail.
“The way I see it, you’re probably clueless about how to deal with this.”
“I am,” B.J. admitted, feeling suddenly sick. She sat down the cinnamon roll. “I really, really am.”
“You have no mother or sisters or even a grandmother to give you any kind of tips or advice. I mean, sure, there’s your sister-in-law, Phyllis. . .”
Thinking of going to Buck’s wife for any kind of assistance made B.J. wince. Hell no, she’d rather talk to Leroy about PMS cramps.
Jo Ellen grinned. “That’s what I thought. Ergo, I’ve decided to take you under my wing, so to speak. So. . .if you have any questions, concerns, or—”
“Am I going to have to pee this often the entire pregnancy?” B.J. asked immediately.
Jo Ellen threw back her head and laughed. “You have no idea,” she affirmed. “And it only gets worse too. I swear, Tanner was tap-dancing on my bladder through my third trimester.”
B.J. was wondering if she’d look like a moron if she asked what a third trimester was when a sharp infan
t cry came through the baby monitor sitting on the counter by the pan of cinnamon rolls. She gave a jerk of surprise.
Grady’s sister, however, softened. “And speak of the little angel himself,” she said. Starting for the door, she motioned for B.J. to follow. “Come meet my son.”
B.J. frowned, leery. If Jo Ellen ended up changing a diaper in front of her, she was probably going to hurl the few bites of cinnamon roll she’d managed to swallow.
When they reached the nursery, B.J. stopped short. The dim room smelled like baby powder, and that was the only thing she recognized. She might as well have stepped onto Mars. Everything past the door’s threshold was completely foreign. Gaping at the pale blue walls lined with nursery rhyme borders, she didn’t pay much attention to Jo Ellen crooning at the wiggling bundle in the crib.
Holy hell, did she need to buy all this crap for one itty bitty little baby? This was going to cost her a fortune, not to mention the fact she had no idea what any of it was or what she was supposed to do with it. Maybe Tucker Rawlings had a point. She wasn’t cut out to be a mother. The kid would get along better if she just left it with Grady and took off.
Her stomach burned at the thought, and she pressed her hand to it, to her baby.
“B.J.,” Jo Ellen murmured as she picked up the swaddled infant. “This is Tanner. Tanner, meet your new Aunt B.J.”
