Commitment (34 page)

Tom rambled on, babbling like a brook. He gushed about her hair, her figure, her skin, and the way she always smells faintly of lemon. He burbled about The Glass Slipper and the successful business she created from scratch. A rush of funny things Maggie says and quirky things she does tripped from his tongue, and the next thing he knew, a tiny black velvet box was thrust into the palm of his hand.

Steadfastly, he ignored the wisps of smoke trailing from the edges of his credit card as he strode from the store. He hit Wabash Avenue a few thousand dollars poorer, but even Tom recognized that he was infinitely happier than he’d been in…forever.

The ring was perfect. A simple, classic solitaire, the stone he’d chosen was as blindingly flawless as Maggie’s smile and big enough to put someone’s eye out. Eunice was a miracle-worker. And damn good at her job, too. The woman must be some kind of jewelry-pushing juju goddess. After all, good old Eunice almost made him forget that he was about to go chasing after the very piece-of-paper-type commitment he made a living undoing.

****

Unbearable. The entire day was unbearable. She was awakened by a spate of nauseatingly chipper whistling. As if that happy tune wasn’t bad enough, moments later she actually
was
nauseated when the faint aroma of canned seafood medley wafted down the hall. The moment the apartment door closed behind Tom, she was worshipping the porcelain god.

Things didn’t get any better as the day ticked on, either. She spilled paraffin down the front of her last clean set of scrubs. The moo goo she ate for dinner the night before must have been loaded with extra sodium and mega MSG, because her fingers were swollen to the size of kielbasa. Her skin creaked like too small shoes stretched taut across her breasts and belly and leaving barely enough to cover the rest of her. Even her scalp was tight, which just exacerbated the low, strumming headache she’d been harboring for two days.

Her feet dragged as she started up the steps to her apartment. The extra-small epidermis she wore itched. The rolling sick in her stomach was now her constant companion, intensifying each time she got a whiff of anything citrusy.

She switched out all the products she used in her treatment room, insisted they change the lime slices floating in the purified water they served their clients to cucumber, and threatened the massage therapist who dared to bring an orange in her lunch with instant termination if she broke the rind. Still, she couldn’t escape the tangy
tinge
in the air or the wringing in her gut with each shallow breath she took.

It wasn’t until her two o’clock Brazilian wax client scurried from the room muttering about labia-hating, lemon-scented, lipstick lesbians that Maggie realized she was the source of her own discomfort.

She stumbled into her apartment armed with unscented bar soap and a bottle of baby shampoo from the nearest drugstore. On her way in she also snagged a tube of hypo-allergenic body lotion from a display downstairs. Making a beeline for the bathroom, she ignored Fred’s plaintive meows.

Using the shower curtain as a shield, she pinched the bottle of lemongrass body wash between her thumb and forefinger and averted her face, holding the hazardous toiletry at arm’s length as she scurried to the kitchen. Fred purred and wound between her ankles as she pulled the liner from the trash can. The cat’s trolling motor sounded vaguely like a threat.

“Just give me a minute, okay?” she huffed.

She tied the bag in two secure knots then set it outside the apartment door for Tom to haul down to the dumpster. Closing the door, she pushed a loose tendril of hair back with her forearm and caught another whiff of her skin. Fred’s rumbling purr morphed into a growl, but she was too far gone to care.

“Ugh!”

She whirled and stalked back to the bathroom, oblivious to her companion’s mounting protests. The wax-spattered scrubs fell to the floor in a heap. The ginormous granny bra she’d bought in a futile effort to restrain her bosom hit the deck. She yanked back the shower curtain then tore into the package of inoffensive soap as the water heated.

Maggie caught sight of her rapidly expanding figure in the mirror above the sink and grimaced. Covering her belly with one hand, she used the forearm to gently lift her boobs. A frown creased her brow as she studied her reflection critically. This was the awkward stage. Her waist had completely disappeared. Her breasts looked almost cartoonish. Her stomach was round but not obvious. Yet.

She sighed and turned away from the reflection. At this point in time, it was too depressing to even look. She was too small to look pregnant, and too fat to look small.

A grimace twisted her mouth. She scooped Tom’s softening bar of Irish Spring from the soap dish and chucked it at the sink. The bar of unscented, un-pretty, un-sexy soap slid into the pale green pool of water left behind. She nudged his bottle of Head and Shoulders aside, making room on the shelf for the baby shampoo, doing her best not to think about the half-hideous dress she was forced to buy for the Haven House fundraiser they were scheduled to attend the following Saturday.

Maggie yanked shut the shower curtain, snatched the bar of soap from the dish, and inhaled deeply, drinking in nothingness and exhaling a relieved sigh. She set to work, scrubbing the last vestiges of her tangy tormentors from her skin. The bar slid over what seemed like acres of new real estate. She tried to picture herself in that dress, wearing shoes that weren’t made of rubber, and clinging to Tom’s arm as they sailed into a crowded ballroom.

She scowled at her body and muttered, “Might need a Coast Guard cutter.”

Soapy hands caressed her burgeoning belly. The firm warmth chased the dark thoughts from her mind. The distaste in her mouth dissipated as her palms cupped the curve that cradled her baby.

“Hope he likes herding beef on the hoof, because Mommy’s feeling like a cow.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “Of course, Daddy is as stubborn as a mule, so we make a good couple.”

The image of a pretty shuttered colonial house perfectly situated on a shaded lot popped into her head and her smile faded. Her hands stilled, fingers splayed wide over the comforting swell of her stomach as the water pummeled her back. A scowl pulled at the corners of her mouth, chasing off the last vestiges of that serene smile.

He pulled over during their weekend jaunt to the suburbs for groceries. Right smack dab in front of that house. Her house. The house of her little girl dreams. The bastard skipped right from duplexes to her dream house without blinking an eye and without asking.

“Maybe that’s why he wants all that grass, Kitten,” she whispered. “Mules want to graze.”

Hell, the damn thing even had a picket fence. The ‘For Sale’ sign planted in the front lawn called to her like a siren’s song. When Tom put the car in reverse to take a better look, she caught sight of the tented canvas of a wooden
playset
in the backyard, and her heart stutter-stepped.

“They’re having an open house,” he said, squinting through the windshield. “
Wanna
take a look?”

She stopped breathing altogether, her eyes locked on the striped awning that covered the redwood jungle gym. The car’s engine purred. Her blood hummed in her veins, pulsing in her ears. Her eyes shifted back to her dream house. She shook her head, unable to force so much as a squeak past the lump in her throat.

His eyebrows rose. “No? You don’t?”

She tore her gaze from the gleaming white façade and forced her lungs to expand. “No,” she managed at last, darting a glance in his direction.

Disappointment flickered in his eyes and her heart seized. Tom eased back in the driver’s seat and put the car in gear again. “You don’t like traditional houses?” he asked as he pulled from the curb.

She fought the urge to turn in her seat, the unbearable need to catch one more glimpse of the dream she’d never have. She twisted her fingers together in her lap and kept her gaze locked on the road ahead. “No, I do….”

“Because I think maybe we should start looking for real. Your apartment is going to be way too small once you start cramming all the baby stuff in there. We’ll need to figure out what we’re looking at for a down payment—”

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, inhaling through her nose in a vain attempt to ease the ache in her chest. “We’ll be fine where we are.”

The truth was, she didn’t want to look at houses. She already had a bedroom that wasn’t quite his. She didn’t want to test faucets he might not be around to fix or admire green lawns he wouldn’t mow.

“Maggie…” Unwilling to be cajoled into setting foot in that too-perfect house, she forced her eyes open and gave her head a sharp shake. “Are you sure? We could go back.” His foot eased from the accelerator and her heartbeat sped up. “It looked like a really nice house.”

Managing a wan smile, she shook her head again. “I just…I’m tired.”

He nodded, but disappointment etched its way into the lines bracketing his mouth. A smug tingle of satisfaction tickled the back of her throat when he turned the corner. She kept her gaze glued to the road ahead, resolutely leaving that dangerous dream house behind.

The bar of soap spurted from her fingers. The forgotten shower spray cooled enough to make her shiver. She stared down at the wrinkles puckering her fingers and shook her head to clear her muddled thoughts. Fumbling with the knobs, she shut off the water and snaked one prune-y hand from the curtain to grope for a towel.

Plush Egyptian cotton rasped like sandpaper against her waterlogged skin. Cool air seeped in around the curtain. Maggie wrapped the bath sheet around her expanding girth and brushed the curtain aside. The moment her toes sank into the bathmat, Fred’s claws pierced her ankle, and their howls of displeasure rang out in perfect harmony.

****

Thirty minutes later, Maggie sat on the sofa in her biggest, softest pajamas, her hair drying in untamed ringlets around her face. A cake baking war raged on the small screen. She rubbed antibiotic ointment into the jagged scratches Fred gave her as a token of his undying love.

Right on cue, her stomach growled the moment Tom’s key scraped into the lock. The hinges sang as the door opened. “If you’re not carrying dinner you might as well go home to your place,” she called without a backwards glance. She heard a sharp intake of breath then the soft hiss as he let it go.

“I thought I’d take you out tonight.”

She groaned and slumped lower in the cushions. “Unh.”

“Unh?” The door squeaked a little wider. “Is that a no?”

“That’s a ‘Hell no, I feel disgusting.’”

“Gotcha.”

The leather soles of his shoes whispered against the hardwood floors. He crouched beside the couch, his hand gripping his thigh. His smile was wan and a bit distracted. Maggie wondered at the faint lines of disappointment that tugged at his mouth. “Maybe another night?”

He nodded. “What can I bring you?”

“Chicken,” she mumbled, shooting him a baleful glance.

“Fried, grilled, baked, Szechwan, Kiev…”

“Grilled would be best, I think. And mashed potatoes.” He moved to brush her hair back, but she flinched. “Don’t. My skin’s too tight.”

“Okay.” He drew the word out as he slowly lowered his hand. “Grilled chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“And corn,” she added as he straightened. “And cake.”

“Corn and cake,” he confirmed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants.

Tom fidgeted with something in his pocket, obviously nervous. She conjured a smile, her fingers closing around his wrist. “I’m sorry. Bad day today.”

He nodded then dropped a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and cake.”

She nodded, fluttering her eyelashes for effect. “Yes, and if you’re successful in completing your mission you will be rewarded with the opportunity to rub my feet.”

“Really? Can I?”

His mocking gasp evoked a chuckle. Her smile widened, taking on a wicked gleam. “If the cake is chocolate you might get to rub other things, too.”

Tom did a quick about-face and strode to the door. “On it!”

Chapter Nineteen

The damn ring was burning a hole in his pocket. Not literally. At the moment he wasn’t wearing pants. Well, he was wearing underpants, but those didn’t have pockets. The ring was scorching him
figuratively
. He’d had the damn thing for over a week and still hadn’t any clue what to do with it.

He couldn’t carry it with him all the time because Maggie was all too familiar with the bulges in his pants. She’d spot it and be on him in a second—and not in a sexy way. He couldn’t leave it at her place because there was no way of knowing when she’d go into one of those bizarre cleaning frenzies that always end with his belongings in a pile at the center of the bedroom rug. He blamed the pregnancy for those little whirlwinds of insanity. At least, he hoped they were hormonally induced. Otherwise, the woman he had chosen to carry his child was severely unbalanced.