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1
CHELSEA
Iinhale blissfully, letting the magnolia bloom’s fragrance fill my nostrils. To be honest, the scent is a little bit sickly-sweet, and I wonder if I’m going to feel nauseous from the cloying smell. But what the hell? I’m lucky to be here and let out a contented sigh, resting my hands on my burgeoning belly.
After all, I’m pregnant and staying in a beautiful little cottage that shares a garden with the mansion out front. Floral notes fill my nostrils, and small birds flit in a nearby tree, twittering mirthfully as a light breeze grazes my shoulders. I smile before snipping off one last magnolia and placing it in my basket. These blooms are going to make for a beautiful table display, and I can’t wait.
After all, my mom’s opened her doors to me for the duration of my pregnancy. My mom’s a godsend because my babydaddy’s not in the picture, and Elsa basically took me in as a charity case. But I’m not angry with the father of the baby because the pregnancy was an accident, and we weren’t really dating per se. We were hooking up and always used protection, but no contraception is fool-proof, and wha-la! Now I’m a couple months along.
Of course, Jerome freaked out when he found out because he understood the consequences. But as a twenty-two year-old boy, he wasn’t exactly interested in becoming a father, and tried to talk me out of the whole thing. I wasn’t having any of that because unbeknownst to Jerome, this isn’t my first pregnancy. My first one was about two years ago, and nearly broke my heart when it ended in a miscarriage. There were days when I couldn’t get out of bed, and wanted nothing more than for the Earth to swallow me whole.
So when a plus appeared on the pregnancy indicator this time around, I stared and my breathing became shallow. My fingers were trembling, but not because of fear or apprehension, but because I was overjoyed. I was getting a second chance at motherhood, and no way was I going to throw this away.
As a result, Jerome and I went our separate ways. I don’t blame him. Most guys seem to want to delay fatherhood until they’re in the forties (or even fifties or sixties) these days, so he was just part of a societal shift in mentality. Besides, what was I going to do? You can’t make someone stay who doesn’t want to stay.
But now, I’ve moved in with my mom in a cute little cottage in New Jersey, and life is quiet and blissful. I rest on my heels, lifting my face up toward the sky and closing my eyes. The sun warms my cheeks and the breeze flows through my curly hair, as if caressing my form. After a few deep breaths, my eyes open, and to my surprise, a butterfly has landed on my arm. This must be a good sign, right? As I watch, its orange wings begin to move and slowly, it floats off with the breeze.
I sigh with contentment because this is a far cry from how I was living just a few months prior. The contrast is crazy, to be honest, because I used to be an escort in New York City. Yes, that’s right. I worked on my back to support myself, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It funded my lifestyle, and it was a lot of fun because I wasn’t a streetwalker or anything dangerous like that. Instead, I was with a high-end agency called City Girls that only caters to the best of the best. As a result, billionaires and CEOs were regular clients, and the tips were beyond amazing.
But after my pregnancy hit, I knew I didn’t want to do it anymore. Not because being an escort was unseemly, but because I don’t want to take any chances with my health. As a result, I hit up Elsa for housing, and my mom allowed me to move in with her.
The cottage is a nice place, too. Our home is a cute, shingled A-frame painted white with green trim and matching shutters. There’s a small porch decorated with a swing and a few hardy plants in front. It shares a garden with the aforementioned mansion, although the two structures couldn’t be more different. The manor must be five times the size of the cottage, and it was built to impress. Although you can’t see it from here, there’s a fountain near the circular driveway, as well as a humongous red door, and of course, there must be at least thirty rooms inside.
I don’t know for sure though, because I’ve never been inside. The mansion belongs to Mason Richards, my mom’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. What their relationship status is now, I have no idea, and to be honest, I don’t really want to know. For example, why doesn’t my mom live in the manor, if she’s Mr. Richards’ girlfriend? Why haven’t we seen him for weeks now? I shake my head before digging my hands in the fresh dirt again. Again, it’s probably betternotto know, and I’m not going to ask Elsa either. There’s no sense in poking my nose in someone else’s business, especially where a billionaire is concerned.
Instead, I focus on the sun as it warms my form, and then smile. It’s time to go inside before I get sunstroke, and I know the baby will appreciate some cool lemonade. Awkwardly, I manage to get to my feet, my bump making me sway like an off-kilter ship, and with a quiet huff, I rest my hands on my knees for a moment, just trying to breathe.
“You’ve made me as ungainly as an elephant,” I joke to the child within. He or she seems to hear, and my belly ripples a bit as he kicks in agreement.
But then, goosebumps rise on my arms, and a prickle tickles the back of my neck. What was that? I turn quickly, blinking in the bright sunlight while peering around the garden. Is it the housekeeper? My mom? Did someone stop by for a visit?
But no one appears, and I look around, perplexed. I could swear that someone was here, even if they’re not showing themselves. Suddenly, the tingle comes again, and I realize what it is. Someone’s watching me from afar. I’ve always been able to tell when I’m getting the eye because I have a sixth sense for this sort of thing, and sure enough, my gaze darts to the big house. Is my unseen observer inside? But who could it be? The housekeeper? Someone from the staff? Even Mr. Richards himself?
But then I scold myself because Mason Richards is a busy CEO who has a ton on his plate. He doesn’t have time to be watching women garden in his backyard, and come to think of it, he’s probably not even home right now. Guys like that travel all the time, and when they’re not traveling, they’re at the office making millions. He wouldn’t be wasting his time staring at some strange woman in his yard. Hell, I look like the help with my grubby hands and dirt-stained housedress.
But still…
My eyes drift to the mansion again, and just when I’m about to give up, there’s the twitch of a curtain from one of the upper levels. Then, I catch sight of a dark figure right before it turns away, disappearing from the window. Who was that?
My heart accelerates because it definitely wasn’t the housekeeper. Mrs. Portia is about five two and stout, whereas the figure in the window was tall with broad shoulders. He looked to be wearing a dark suit as well, although I could be wrong. Could it be Mr. Richards? But butlers and footmen wear suits too, right?
Again, I force myself to think critically. Do people even have butlers and footmen these days? It sounds like something out ofBridgertonor some other Regency romance. Yet a frisson runs through my figure, and somehow, I know that it was Mr. Richards. How long was he standing there? And why was he watching me, anyways? Does he have an interest in horticulture?
But once again, I slam the lid on my curiosity because it’s not going to get me anywhere. This is my mom’s boyfriend, for Christ's sake, and she hasn’t even introduced me to him. It’s been a month since I moved in, but Mason Richards has been curiously elusive.
Either way, it’s none of my business, and with a sigh, I pick up my gardening basket and begin making my way back toward the cottage. It would be nice to meet the man of the house at some point, but obviously, Mr. Richards has other priorities besides a young pregnant woman who’s taken up residence at his estate.
2
CHELSEA
The interior of the cottage is blessedly cool, and I place the basket on the kitchen table to be handled later. Right now, I just need to get some lemonade, and with a sigh of relief, there’s a huge pitcher in the fridge. After pouring myself a glass, I settle on the couch and look around while wiping sweat from my brow.
Elsa’s done a good job decorating her home. The inside of the cottage is small but comfortable, with colorful curtains, a chintz sofa, and a throw pillow embroidered “It’s Always Five O’Clock Somewhere.” My bedroom is the smaller one of the two, but I don’t mind because I’m a guest, after all. Besides, I’ve made it comfy with a fluffy white duvet on the full-size mattress, some cheery potted plants, and three cloud lamps dangling from the ceiling. It’s a peaceful, private space, perfect for me as I wait for my baby to arrive.
But right, the baby. They need some dinner, and so I hurry to the shared bathroom for a shower. Tonight, we’re going to have my special mac n’ cheese, but I need to get on it before my mom returns from work. Quickly, I lather myself and then rinse, before stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my curvy form. Then, I hurry into my room and pull on comfy sweats because the air conditioner is almost always running in the cottage. The cool air is nice when I slip under my fluffy duvet to sleep, but not so great when I’ve got wet hair from a shower.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on my door and my mom pokes her head in. Elsa shoots me a small smile.
