Page 8 of Sterling Heat

“How do you know I’m available?” He jolts uprights, setting down the tray with a heavy thud on the counter lining the back wall. Efficiently, he works at picking up the brownies and placing a few in a bag. He still hasn’t glanced up at me which gives me another minute to check him out.

Those strong biceps. Those thick forearms. That fine ass. He’s a vision of strength.

But I heard what he said about babies and kids. While I can appreciate his outer appearance of compelling strength, something lurks beneath my stubble-jawed baker.

Well, not my baker. He’s not my anything.

On that note, my belly squeezes again, the force enough to double me forward and my palm lands on the glass display case at my side. A squeaking streak resonates as my sweaty hand glides along the glass while I bend forward, cupping my stomach.

Shit, this freaking hurts.

“Are you alright?” The woman standing at the counter offers concern as she addresses me, but it takes me a second before I can catch my breath and stand upright to answer her.

With a shaky hand, I swipe at my forehead, brushing back hairs that have come loose from the tight bun at the base of my neck.

“I’m good,” I lie, as my teeth unclench. My jaw is tight. Maybe I should call the doctor.

After I get my lemon baby-Bundt cake.

The woman staring at me has dirty blonde hair and deep brown eyes. She’s roughly my height which is simply average for a woman but she’s thin and fit, and I want to hate her because I’m bloated like a blow-up costume one wears on Halloween. I feel like Tweedle Dee without his brother.

My gaze shifts from her to the man standing behind the counter who is struck dumb as he stares at me. Maybe he’s upset that I never returned his sweatshirt and tee. He’d told me I could keep them when I’d truly intended to return his things, but I didn’t know how to face him again.

I’d taken advantage of his sweet kiss and turned it into a mini-make-out session, eager for him to take things further. Hormones. On that day, they were already out of whack and making me have crazy thoughts, like him sliding his fingers the remainder of the way up my thigh and between my legs. Then, he’d slip into me, and I could pretend he’d been the one to impregnate me.

The idea was selfish and ridiculous, and completely unrealistic.

“Hi.” Gingerly, I lift my sweaty palm like he’ll remember me, and wave at the man I now know as Sebastian.

The shocked expression on his face and eventual crinkle of his forehead suggests he either doesn’t remember me, or he’s pissed that he does.

He promised it wasn’t a mistake to kiss me.

I shake off the sudden wave of melancholy that ripples down my spine. Then again, that shiver is another back-curving piercing-sensation that has me leaning forward, clutching my lower belly once more.

“Enya?”

As I huff through the tightening, Sebastian moves around the counter. Suddenly, he’s at my side. A soothing hand swipes down my spine.

“Just wanted to order a lemon baby-Bundt cake,” I wheeze through the toe-curling ache. Huffing out a deep breath, I inhale the strong scent of vanilla and motor oil. Why does he smell like this combination and why is it so mouthwatering?

“Honey,” the woman—Vale—addresses me. “How far along are you?”

As the contraction subsides, I slowly straighten, rubbing a hand over my belly, mentally soothing the bun in my oven and cursing the jabbing pain. “I’m thirty-four weeks. I have six weeks to go.”

“You don’t look so good,” Sebastian mutters beside me and I turn my head to meet his eyes.

“Sebastian,” Vale chastises. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he snaps at her rather sharply before glancing back at me. “But you look a little ashen.”

He presses a hand to my forehead, taking the liberty to touch me. His palm feels cool against my hot skin, and I want him to keep it there for all of eternity. I might have even hummed at the soothing touch.

Then I’m clutched again, forcing me to lurch forward and grip my belly with two hands. “Fuck.”

A hand rubs down my back again while the bark, “Call 9-1-1, Rena” drifts over my head. Sebastian’s commanding tone sends a tremor through my body or maybe that’s the aftereffects of the wallop I just took from my little one.

“Cookie,” I groan.