Commitment (35 page)

As it was, he was having a hard time coming up with a decent chance at a proposal. Maggie spent most of the week with her head in the commode, and he spent most days and nights feeling wretched for putting her in this position. He shook his head, gathering more of her wild crimson curls in his palm. Only Maggie McCann could super-size morning sickness into morning, noon, and night sickness.

“Better?” he asked, stroking damp curls away from her face.

“This sucks,” she rasped as she took the glass of water from his hand.

“I’m sorry.” He wiped a tear trail from the corner of her eye. “
Wanna
stay home? Shelia will understand.”

Her forehead puckered into a frown. Lines of misery bracketed her mouth as she shook her head. “No, I want to get out of here.”

He nodded his understanding then leveraged himself from the hard tile floor. Offering her a hand, he smiled at her snarled red curls. “Want to hop back into the shower?”

She cast a disparaging glance at her naked body. “I don’t think I’ll be hopping anywhere for a while.”

On impulse, he dropped to his knees again and buried his face in the curve of her belly, tipping his face up with a worshipful smile. “Good. It’ll make it easier to keep up with you.”

“I’m already waddling,” she complained.

“You’re incredible.” He ran his hands over the marvel of her barely-rounded stomach. “A miracle.”

She tugged at his arms, urging him up. “A miracle that happens every day,” she said with a smirk.

Heaving a groan, he rose to his feet then gathered her into his arms. His heart strummed, strong and steady against her soft cheek. He pressed a soft kiss to her tangled mop of hair. “Not to us, Maggie.” He gathered her closer still. “This hasn’t happened to us before.”

“No.”

He pulled back, framing her face in his hands and stroking her jaw with his thumbs. When he leaned in to kiss her, she shook her head and he jerked back. “What?”

“I just relived my afternoon snack, remember?”

He shuddered. “Oh yeah.”

“And I need to get back in the shower.”

She wriggled out of his arms and he couldn’t help but leer. She was round and ripe, her skin flushed and rosy, like a juicy peach. “Want company? I could scrub your back.”

Maggie fixed him with a bland stare. “You’ve already showered, remember?”

He started to maneuver her back toward the tub. “I can shower again. The other night you told me I was a dirty, dirty boy—”

“Tom—”

The ragged impatience in her voice was all too familiar. Holding his hands high, he took a hasty step back and bumped into the sink. An aluminum can clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop beside his foot. The shower curtain rings slinked along the metal rod. Heaving a sigh, he stared down at the warming shave cream she kept just for him. He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw then let his hand trail down his chest.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Bought a dress,” she called over the spray.

“Yeah, but…” He glanced around the cluttered bathroom and tamped down on the cabin fever gnawing at his gut. This was why the ring stayed locked in his desk at work all week. “We don’t have to go.”

Maggie peered around the edge of the shower curtain. “I may come after you with my fancy can opener if I don’t get out of this building for a while.”

He nodded, smiling as Fred threaded his fat body through his legs. “I’ll feed the cat.”

The shower curtain twitched and his favorite redhead peeped around the edge again. “Tom?”

“Huh?”

“Thanks.”

He scraped an entire can of tuna delight into Fred’s dish, accepted the fat cat’s head-butt of masculine solidarity, and straightened, his spine snapping to attention one vertebra at a time. Upon hearing his name, his companion paused long enough to cast a bland look in his direction. White whiskers twitched. The orange ‘M’ on the tabby’s forehead changed to italics and he smacked his lips, his tail swishing dismissively as he turned his attention back to his meal.

Tom chuckled and hitched the waistband of his black boxer-briefs. “What? I’m wearing my formal underwear. Still not good enough for you?”

He turned to retreat to the bedroom for final preparations for a night trussed up in a monkey suit making small talk with people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. He was the lucky guy who would spend an evening of squiring the crankiest pregnant woman north of the Eisenhower Expressway around an over-crowded, over-heated hotel ballroom. He could only think of one way to cheer her up.

Just down the hall, spray hissed against steamy tile walls. A bar of soap tumbled into the tub with a series of
thunks
only to be chased by a string of muttered expletives. Decision made, Tom shot a furtive glance at the bathroom door as he lunged for his bulging briefcase.

Grinning from ear to ear, he gave the black velvet box a little toss as he straightened. The water shut off and curtain rings screeched against the rod. Shooting the fat orange cat a glance, he asked, “This okay with you, bud?”

Fred didn’t bother to look up. Settling down on his generous haunches, the cat ate with renewed vigor. Tom decided to take that as an affirmative.

“All-righty, then. Well, I’ll treat her right and all that stuff.” He gave the cat a brisk nod and started toward the bedroom. “Glad we had this talk.”

****

Her ankles wobbled as she shimmied from side to side, cursing the fit of vanity that prompted her to squish her body into a set of pre-baby
Spanx
with each puff of breath. She worked the steel-reinforced spandex to the tops of her thighs then slumped against the side of the stall for a rest. She managed a quick inhalation before the ladies’ room door swung open, allowing the jazzy strains of a twenty-piece swing band to waft into the tiled room. Unwilling to expire in that stall, Maggie allowed the rhythm to rouse her to action.

The click-click of toothpick heels bounced off the walls. “I’m not saying she’s unattractive,” a woman said with a lilting laugh. “I was only commenting on the fact that his tastes seem to have…expanded. That’s all.”

“Expanded,” her friend repeated. The second punctuated her snotty snicker with a snort. “Nice.”

“Oh, come on.” The instigator’s syrupy southern drawl dropped a full octave, growing broader and more effusive as she picked up steam. “We all know the man is a bit of a cowboy, but did you honestly ever think you’d see him wrangling a heifer like that?”

The mere mention of beef on the hoof had Maggie tugging on the girdle with renewed vigor. She gritted her teeth as she hiked the smothering synthetic over the rounded mound of her baby bump. “Sorry, Sweets,” she whispered to her unborn child. She yanked at the wide elastic band, urging it higher. “Never again, I promise.”

“I’ve seen him with all sorts of women over the years.” A lipstick cap clattered to the marble counter. The water ran in the sink. “The man just likes women in general. That’s part of his charm.”

Something in the second woman’s nasal drone tweaked Maggie’s antennae. Leaning to her left, she peered through the crack in the stall door, but she couldn’t get a clear peek at the mirror.

“I know, but you have to admit she’s a little…healthier…than his usual type,” Bettie-Southern-Belle insisted.

“Oh, I’ll admit that,” Nancy Nasal conceded. A compact snapped shut. “Actually, I’ve known Maggie for years. Never pictured her with a man like Tom, but I suppose it was just a matter of time in his case. Her little salon is cute.”

The too-tight waistband slipped from her fingers and snapped into place. Maggie sucked in a breath, her ego reeling from the sting of her name, and what was left of her waistline smarting from the betrayal of her body shaper. They were talking about her. And Tom.

“Heifer?” she exhaled on a whisper.

An evening bag closed with a crisp snap. The shuffle of stilettos heralded their impending departure. “She’s a hairdresser?” Bettie chortled. “That explains the dye job.”

The heavy door swung open on the
shoosh
of well-oiled hinges. Nasal Nancy’s sniggering laugh swirled through the room. “Well, you’d have to ask Tom to be sure, but I don’t think that red hair is Miss Clairol’s work.”

Maggie stared at the tips of her black peep-toe pumps. The hem of her dress fell to her knees and her hands splayed over the gently rounded mound of her belly. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the prickle of hot, angry tears. The door opened again, and she sucked in a sharp breath and ground her molars.

“Maggie? If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to run away with this handsome scoundrel of yours.”

The warmth in Sheila’s voice rang clear and true, nearly dislodging the sob in the hollow of Maggie’s throat. She swallowed hard, pressing her palms to her stomach, praying she could keep her canapés in check. To buy time, she indulged in an unnecessary flush then fidgeted with the seams of her dress.

“He’d like that, Sheila.” To her relief, her voice came out with only the barest of tremors.

The older woman’s snort ricocheted off the walls. “The man only has eyes for you, my dear.” Maggie took a deep breath and opened the stall door. A cool wave of calm washed over her when Sheila turned and her warm, dark gaze swept her from head to toe. “Is it any wonder? My God, Maggie, you’re a walking, talking fertility goddess. I thought Russell
Tupperman
was going to trip over his tongue when you walked in.”

Arching her eyebrows, Maggie stared at her friend challengingly and smoothed her hand over her non-existent waistline before moving to the sink. “Oh? Because I heard the word ‘heifer’ bandied about, and I’m pretty sure those women weren’t discussing livestock.”

“Women.” Sheila dismissed the incident with a sniff and a regal wave of her hand. “Jealous.”

Maggie had a harder time shaking her doubts. She plucked a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and dried her trembling hands. Moving to the vanity, she rummaged through her tiny bag for a lipstick. She freed the tube but fumbled the cap.

Sheila recovered the wayward lid before it could roll away. Her hands were cool and steady when she pried the tube from her quivering fingers and snapped the lid onto the tube with a click. “You’re not silly enough to bite into those sour grapes, are you?”

Maggie turned to face her friend, hot tears fueled by injured pride and abject humiliation pooling in her eyes. “I feel so stupid.”

Setting the lipstick aside, Sheila pressed her cool palms to Maggie’s flaming cheeks. “You are anything but stupid,” she said firmly.

The tears broke free, spilling over to tangle in her lashes, sizzling their way down her cheeks. “I am…I am,” she whispered brokenly. “I love him. I fell in love with him. How stupid was that?”

As fast as they fell, Sheila caught the tears with her thumbs, brushing them away as if she hadn’t managed to screw up her entire life, as if somehow everything could and would be okay.

“Of course you love him,” Sheila murmured without a trace of sympathy. “What sane woman wouldn’t? Tom is a much better man than he gives himself credit for being, and you, my darling, you are magnificent.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand far more than you think I do.” Sheila pressed her palms too firmly against Maggie’s cheeks. “He loves you too. It’s written all over his gorgeous face.” She grinned. “If I wasn’t so damn happy for you both, I’d call you a heifer too.” Soft hands slid to Maggie’s shoulders then gripped her upper arms. “All we have to do is convince our boy to make it official—”

“Oh! No!” The tears stopped and a tiny hiccup lodged in her throat. Her eyes widened in horror. She wagged her head, a fierce denial burning on her tongue. “It’s not like that, Sheila. I told you Tom and I—”

“I know exactly what you and Tom are doing.”

“We’re not… Our relationship isn’t like that.”

“Grow up, Maggie,” the older woman snapped. “You’re not a teenager anymore. You know you didn’t invent this dance.”

Her friend’s terse tone snapped Maggie to attention. “Dance?”

“The ‘I’ll pretend I don’t want him, this is enough’ dance.” The derisive snort Sheila used as punctuation stung far more than the harsh words. “I mean, you don’t have to do a damn thing, do you? You’ll just sit back and take what he’s willing to give and pretend it’s what you want too.”