Mountain Man Cake (Mountain Men of Linesworth Book 2) by Frankie Love

Author:Frankie Love [Love, Frankie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Maggie

I’ve eaten more cake today than I ever need to eat again. At least I’m not dealing with morning sickness. Or, I guess, early evening sickness, considering it’s five o’clock.

I’m in a new pair of LuLuRoe leggings--in a cute cupcake print, obviously-- and have my laptop open, reading Yahoo answers on what to expect when you’re unexpectedly expecting.

The next comment is written by a woman in Memphis who says, “Buy cat food.”

I just feel like no one understands me.

Not that I’ve tried. I feel shitty about lying to my sister and terrified to call Charlie. Normally when I feel alone, I call up some friends and throw together a night out, but I’m not up for it. I’m not up for anything. I’m having a baby and have never even kissed the father.

I wipe the tears away with a tissue.

Is this depression?

No. I can’t be depressed. I ate an entire celebration cake today, save for the slice Greta took. That’s it. I’m just coming down from a sugar coma.

Maybe I should brush my teeth.

With a toothbrush in my mouth, I stare in the mirror, trying to see myself with a baby belly. Which leads me to think about how Charlie will look at me when I have a baby belly. And as I spit out my toothpaste, I am once again left near tears.

This is not the order things should go.

I can be a mom, in fact, I can be a great mom. That isn’t my hang up. The hang up is carrying the child of the man I have always loved, who has never loved me back.

The knock on the door jostles me from the staring contest with myself.

Padding down the hallway of my little house, I yell, “Who is it?”

I pull open the door, not waiting for an answer.

It’s Charlie.

With a pile of brown frosting on top of what looks like a chocolate cake but could more easily be classified as a disaster.

Now I feel nausea.

“Excuse me,” I say, holding up a finger, and running to the bathroom.

I make it in time, but once there I find I can’t heave like I want to. False alarm I guess. Maybe it’s just a stress-sickness. Is that a thing? Like I’m physically making myself ill because of the anxiety over telling Charlie about our new, forever, responsibility.

You know, the one he never asked for.

“You okay, Mags?” he asks from down the hall. I gargle with a glass of water and then return to him. He’s set the cake-aster on my kitchen table. I try not to look t it.

“Did Greta tell you to come over?” I ask. When he looks at me with confusion, I realize I never told my sister the reason I needed to talk to Charlie, or even that it had anything to do with Charlie.

I am a certifiable basket case right now.

“Are you alright?” Charlie asks, stepping toward me. He presses the back of his hand to my forehead. When he touches me, I remember the last time he touched my forehead.

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