Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 7

“I am so sorry.”

“It's fine. Wasn't the first time I've ever cleaned up your sick.”

Mom calls vomiting “your sick” or “the sick.”

“I'm a grown-up, Mom.” Ignoring her comment, I shake some dry food in Spritzy's bowl. He eagerly starts chomping away, the back of his little head bobbing as he chews.

“And soon you'll be someone's mom. Two someones.” Her eyes jump to my belly. “How's it going?”

My hand goes under my navel and I smile. “I'm fine. I’m into the second trimester now, so things should get easier soon.”

“I can't see it with that baggy shirt you're wearing,” she says evenly, slowly. “Soon you'll have to wear maternity clothes.”

I pull up the hem of my shirt. She giggles. The wide elastic panel on my pants makes it clear I'm pregnant.

“I remember when I was pregnant with you,” she says softly, eyes unfocused, clearly going back in the past in her mind's eye. “My friends lent me their maternity clothes. We didn't have so many choices back then. You saved your stuff and passed it around. Why waste money on new when you'd only wear it for such a short time?”

I point to my pants. “These were Shannon's. She lent me her collection of maternity clothes.”

“Lent?”

“She wants everything back.”

“For when she and Declan have another, I hope?”

I nod. She smiles, but it's weak.

The microwave dings and I walk over to it, the dog at my heels. One thing at a time, doggo, I think to myself. Take care of Mom first, then you.

My stomach tightens. Soon I'll add two babies into the mix of people I take care of.

Thank goodness I have Andrew to take care of me.

“Here, Mom,” I announce as I return to her, holding the rice pad. Gingerly, she leans forward. I settle it in place, then let her tweak it. As her shoulders relax, eyes closing with relief, I wonder if I'll develop this autoimmune condition, too.

I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

“Marie is going to be thrilled Shannon's planning to have more. She already has three grandchildren, so you'd think that would be enough,” Mom says as I click Spritzy's leash onto his collar, which immediately leads to him jumping at my face and licking my nose.

Which makes me gag.

Which makes me–

“Are you about to be sick all over, Mandy?” she calls out as I dry heave, Spritzy stepping back and cocking his head as if to ask, Was it something I did?

“Fine, Mom. Need fresh air,” I gasp as I lunge out the door, Spritzy's stubby tail jiggling with excitement as I take five steps and he sniffs the hell out of Mom's light post.

Then he pees and I turn away, trying not to watch the long, thin stream.

It's a sunny day, the kind you want to milk for every second it offers. The temperature’s in the mid-sixties, a rare nice early-March day in Massachusetts, where the sun seems allergic to paying a visit in winter.

I'll try to convince Mom to go outside and sit in the sun, on a reclining lawn chair, but my chances are about one in four. Mom's an actuary, so I think of her in those terms.

Math.

Too bad you can't math your way out of a flare. If you could, Pam Warrick would have done it long ago.

Spritzy turns to look up at me, an eager expression on his tiny, pinched face, as if I'm supposed to praise him for answering nature's call. Instead, I move forward, enjoying the feel of my legs as I take long steps, walking around the block. He's a tiny little thing, a few pounds at most, and holding my end of the leash feels a bit like walking one of those “invisible dog” gag toys you win at a carnival booth.

But he's very real, and I don't know what Mom would do without his companionship.

Fresh air helps me, the walk getting my blood pumping. My body still feels foreign to me as the pregnancy evolves. I have moments when I'm not sure how to get through time itself, the strangeness of growing two human beings inside me making daily life seem dreamlike, as if I'm forgetting something important.

How can I walk a dog while something so monumental is happening in me? How can I get the mail, sit in a work meeting, pump gas–do all the normal things we do in life–and not constantly stop to marvel at what I am doing through no effort of my own?

Biological processes have an order, a sequence, a systematic ritual. Each step hands the proverbial baton off to the next one.

How do we not spend all our time pondering pregnancy?

Spritzy sneezes, three adorable little snits in a row, then turns around, suddenly ready to head home. He has a homing device in his head, the walks always shorter when Mom's having a flare. I can tell he senses her sickness, and gives her extra attention when she flares.

Like Andrew and my pregnancy.

“We're not so different, are we?” I whisper to the dog as we turn the corner and I see the front of the house, looking at it through a new lens. The bushes need to be trimmed, and the mulch has worn thin along the sidewalk. Mom used to hire a neighbor kid to mow the lawn, but he graduated from high school and went off to college, time passing in a way that upset her routine.

Note to self: Hire a landscaping crew to help her.

“Hey!” I call out gently as the screen door bangs behind me, Spritzy shaking with excitement to be home. I unclick the leash and he goes straight for his food dish, looking at me with eyebrows up as if surprised there’s still food there from when I fed him before.

“Thank you. Now I don't have to worry about him.”

“Why not do an electric fence in the backyard, Mom? Then he can run free and you don't have to take him on walks.”

“It's on my