Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 8
Yeah. I know. When you're sick like Mom is, you do as much as possible during the good times; when it gets bad, the rest falls by the wayside.
“Let me hire someone for you.”
She bristles, unwilling to meet my eye. “I can do it.”
“Mom. Let me. Please. Knowing Spritzy's well cared for matters to me because it matters to you.”
“Actually, I was thinking about putting in a regular fence.”
“Really? Why?”
“For when you and Andrew come and bring the babies.”
“Huh?”
“They won't be babies for long. Soon they'll crawl, then walk. And two at the same time! I remember your toddler years, Amanda. You'll need to keep them safe by always having an eye on both. A fence in the backyard here will make a safe place for me to play with my grandchildren, and for Spritzy. It's win-win.”
“That sounds extremely practical.”
She points to herself. “That's me.”
We laugh. It feels good.
“Then I'll hire a company to install a fence,” I say, seizing the moment. “You pick the fence.”
“I'll have to see if it's in the budget.”
“It's in my budget,” I say firmly.
“Everything's in your budget. You married a billionaire!”
“That's right.”
“We've talked about this before,” she says tightly. “You can't just–”
“If your reasoning is that the regular fence will help you to watch my children, then I can 'just', Mom. My treat.”
“Since when is a fence a treat?” But she's smiling, eyes kind and, dare I say it–happy?
“Good. It's settled.”
“You always were a fixer, weren't you? Still are.”
A wave of nausea hits me, making my skin crawl. Who knew skin could feel sick?
“Amanda? You're green. Here.” She sorts through something on her end table, then hands me a wrapped candy. It smells like lemon. I open it and put it on my tongue, the taste instantly helping.
“Get some carbonated water from the fridge. It's in the door. Slim little bottle, no flavor. Sip it slowly. You'll be fine.”
I do exactly as she says, my body moving as if someone is pulling the strings, the sick flavor of bile threatening to crawl up my throat. The first sip makes my stomach gurgle, the second makes me gag, but halfway through the small glass, lemon takes over my mouth and I finally feel the crisis fading.
“Sit,” Mom says, pointing to the couch across from her. I do, Spritzy jumping into Mom's lap, chin on paws, eyes closing as he sighs.
“Okay.”
Wonder where I learned to fix problems for people.
“You'll be fine. Nothing is permanent. How we feel always passes into something different.”
“Is that how you handle flares?”
“Sometimes. It's very easy to be calm and composed when you're not the one struggling.”
I catch her gaze. She's worried. I see it.
“I'm fine. The babies are great. We have an ultrasound coming up.”
“I know. James told me.” Andrew's father and my mother have one of the most unlikely friendships I've ever seen. At one point, we assumed there was a romance brewing between the two of them, but Mom rebuffed him. I'm not entirely convinced nothing's going on, and I've often wondered why Mom rejected his advances before.
Sure, he dates other women. When have you ever seen James McCormick without a woman on his arm, four decades younger? So maybe I'm wrong about my mom, but...
When I ask, she changes the subject.
But they still hang out together.
And they obviously gossip about me and Andrew.
“Did he? I've been informed by him that I'd better produce a boy.”
“That's all on Andrew,” Mom says with a chuckle.
“I understand biology, Mom. Tell it to James.”
“Oh, I have. Trust me. I've made it clear he needs to back off and leave you two alone.”
“Hah! Fat lot of good that will do.”
“I tried.” She shrugs. We share smiles that make it clear we both know how difficult James McCormick can be, and how legendary his stubborn streak is.
My husband is definitely his father's son.
Bzzz
I look at my phone. Andrew.
I'll be home for dinner. What do you want?
For the last few weeks, we've ordered takeout every single night, because I never know what my stomach will or won’t be able to handle. I close my eyes and ask myself what I want, and reply:
Grilled salmon with paprika. Cantaloupe. Sautéed carrots in honey and cumin.
He texts back: I see you’re sticking with the orange theme.
I send an emoji of someone sticking out its tongue.
Will do, he replies. I'll have Consuela make it and bring it home after the gym.
Then I get a heart.
Consuela owns a private restaurant in the Seaport District, the kind that you can't know about unless you know someone who knows someone. It's our special place, and since morning sickness has ravaged me, Consuela's been gracious enough to meet my weirdo dietary needs.
She also takes it as a challenge. My palate has expanded considerably as a result of her driving mission to find new orange foods.
I reply with: You mean you'll have Gina contact Consuela to do it all, and have Gerald pick it up and bring it to the house.
Same thing, he texts back.
“I love how you smile when you think about Andrew,” Mom says, making me look up from my phone.
“Huh?”
“You two are so in love.”
My smile broadens. “We are.”
She looks at my belly. “Those babies are very, very fortunate.”
“Billionaire's kids,” I mutter.
“No. You could be penniless and they'd be so, so blessed. You and Andrew are going to be wonderful parents.”
“How do you know?”
Tenderness floods her face as she reaches for me. I stand and bend before her, her hand on my shoulder, eyes shining with something close to tears.
“Because you have such a good heart. You always did. You're smart and sweet and you care about people and want to help them. And Andrew loves you deeply. I may not understand his ambition, but I do see that he's a loving man.”
“Ambition?”
“When you two started dating, I worried he'd be too busy for a real life. I am less worried now.”
My turn to bristle. “He's not James.”
“Goodness, no. He's certainly not. Andrew will never grow old