Pregnant in Plaid (Ashwood Falls #2)

Prologue

Patrice

The fluorescent lights in the bathroom buzz like angry bees trapped in a Mason jar, and I'm pretty sure the universe is laughing at me right now. Like, full-on cackling with tears streaming down its cosmic face.

I stare at the little plastic stick balanced on the edge of the sink like it's a bomb that might detonate if I blink wrong.

Two pink lines. Bold, defiant, absolutely certain of themselves.

They're not faint or questionable or maybe-if-you-squint-and-pray hopeful.

Nope. These lines showed up to the party with confidence, a megaphone, and zero plans to leave quietly.

"This is fine," I whisper to my reflection, which looks pale, sweaty, and deeply unconvinced. "Everything is fine. I'm fine. We're all fine."

Narrator voice in my head: She was not, in fact, fine.

I grip the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles go white, forcing myself to take slow, measured breaths like I learned in that one yoga class I took before deciding downward dog was actually just advanced punishment.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

In. Out. In. Out. Don't pass out in the office bathroom because that's how rumors start and HR gets involved.

My phone buzzes on the counter—probably another email about quarterly projections or expense reports—and I ignore it because right now, spreadsheets are the least of my problems. Numbers I can handle.

Numbers make sense. Numbers don't look at you with two pink lines and smugly announce they're about to upend your entire carefully planned existence.

But this? This doesn't compute.

I'm Patrice Henley. Director of Finance.

Youngest person to make senior management at my company.

I have a five-year plan, a ten-year plan, and a retirement plan that involves a villa in Tuscany and at least three well-behaved cats named after famous economists.

I color-code my closet. I alphabetize my spice rack.

I've never missed a deadline in my life.

And now I'm pregnant.

Pregnant.

The word bounces around my skull like a pinball, hitting every anxiety button on the way down.

Pregnant means baby. Baby means diapers and daycare and those weird squeeze pouches of pureed vegetables.

Baby means my life is no longer mine—it belongs to someone else who doesn't even exist yet but has already hijacked my body like a tiny, adorable terrorist.

I press my palm flat against my still-flat stomach, half-expecting to feel something. Movement, maybe. Or a tiny kick of acknowledgment. But there's nothing. Just me, my hand, and the vague sensation that I might throw up again.

"Okay," I mutter, straightening my blazer and trying to channel the version of myself who once presented a budget proposal to the board without breaking a sweat. "Let's review the facts. Logically. Calmly."

Fact one: I'm about eight weeks pregnant. Give or take. The app I downloaded in a panic this morning says I'm the size of a raspberry, which feels both impossibly small and utterly terrifying.

Fact two: The father is a man I spent exactly one night with. One incredible, life-altering, why-don't-rom-coms-prepare-you-for-this kind of night.

Fact three: I have no idea how to contact him because I'm an idiot who didn't get his number, didn't ask for his last name, and definitely didn't think, Hey, maybe I should exchange contact info with this man in case of, oh I don't know, UNEXPECTED PREGNANCY.

I close my eyes and let the memory wash over me—not because I want to, but because my brain apparently thinks now is a great time for a highlight reel.

Two months ago

Ashwood Falls, Alaska.

I'm standing in Tessa's kitchen—well, technically Gage's kitchen, but since she moved in, it's become their kitchen in that nauseating way that makes single people want to gag and swoon simultaneously.

She's pouring wine like her life depends on it, grinning at me with that stupidly happy glow people get when they're disgustingly in love.

"I can't believe you're actually here!" Tessa squeals, nearly sloshing Pinot Grigio onto the counter. "My best friend, in Alaska! Visiting me! Meeting Gage! This is like a rom-com come to life!"

"Please don't make this weird," I say, accepting the glass and taking a very large sip because I already know this trip is going to be weird.

Tessa moved to Alaska after a disastrous engagement implosion and somehow ended up with a mountain man who carves bears out of wood and looks like he stepped off the cover of Lumberjack Quarterly.

If that's not weird, I don't know what is.

Gage walks in then—big, bearded, flannel-wrapped—and nods at me with the kind of quiet intensity that probably makes small woodland creatures nervous. "Good to finally meet you," he says. "Tessa talks about you constantly."

"All good things, I hope," I reply.

"Mostly," he deadpans, and I like him immediately.

"We're going out tonight!" Tessa announces, bouncing on her toes like an overexcited puppy. "Drinks, dancing, the whole thing. Gage's best friend is coming too. You'll love him."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is this a setup?"

"No!" Tessa says, way too quickly. Then, "Maybe. A little. But in a fun, no-pressure way!"

"There's no such thing as no-pressure setups," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite myself.

And then he walks in.

Trace.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that flops just slightly over his forehead and a grin that could probably convince you to do truly stupid things.

Like, invest in cryptocurrency stupid. Or try karaoke sober stupid.

He's wearing jeans that fit in a way that should be illegal and a henley that makes me forget how to form sentences.

"You must be Patrice," he says, and his voice is warm and low and does things to my central nervous system that violate several laws of physics. He holds out his hand, and when I shake it, there's a spark—not metaphorical, like actual static electricity that makes us both laugh.

"Shocking introduction," I say, because apparently my brain thinks puns are flirting.

"Guess we have chemistry," he replies, grin widening, and oh no. Oh no.

This man is dangerous.

The bar is loud, crowded, and smells like beer and bad decisions.

Tessa gets tipsy after two drinks and starts singing along to every song like she's auditioning for The Voice: Drunk Edition.

Gage watches her with the kind of fond exasperation that comes from being deeply, irrevocably in love. It's adorable and slightly nauseating.

But then Tessa gets too tipsy, and suddenly she's pale and swaying, clutching Gage's arm and mumbling something about the room spinning.

"I'm taking her home," Gage says, already guiding her toward the door with the efficiency of a man who's handled worse situations in war zones.

"I'll take Patrice back later," Trace offers, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. "Unless you want to bail too?"

I should say yes. I should absolutely leave with Tessa and Gage, go back to the cabin, drink tea, and have a perfectly reasonable, responsible evening.

Instead, I hear myself say, "One more drink couldn't hurt."

Narrator voice: It could, in fact, hurt quite a bit.

One drink turns into three. Three turns into dancing.

Dancing turns into his hands on my waist, my fingers in his hair, the bass vibrating through the floor and into my bones.

He smells like cedar and something woodsy, and when he leans in close to talk over the music, his breath tickles my ear and makes my knees forget how to function.

"Having fun?" he asks, lips dangerously close to my temple.

"More than I should," I admit, because tequila has made me honest.

"Good," he murmurs, and the single word sends heat pooling low in my belly.

We stumble out of the bar sometime after midnight, laughing about nothing and everything. The Alaskan air is cold and crisp, stars scattered across the sky like someone knocked over a jar of glitter. Trace offers me his jacket, and I take it because I'm freezing and because it smells like him.

"My place isn't far," he says, and it's not a question but it's not not a question, and I know exactly what he's offering.

I should say no. I should call a cab, go back to Gage's, and wake up tomorrow with nothing more than a mild hangover and some blurry photos.

But I don't.

"Lead the way," I say instead.

His cabin is small but cozy, filled with handmade furniture that makes me wonder if he built everything himself.

"Want some water?" he asks, and I nod because my mouth is suddenly dry for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush, and that spark from earlier is back but bigger now, crackling between us like live wire. He steps closer. I don't step back. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw, and I lean into it like I'm starving for touch.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice rough.

"Don't you dare," I reply.

And then we're kissing—deep, desperate, all-consuming. He tastes like whiskey and want, and I can't get enough. My hands tug at his shirt, his fingers tangle in my hair, and we stumble toward the bedroom in a graceless tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

What happens next is…

Well.

It's the kind of night that ruins you for other nights.

The kind that makes you understand why people write songs and poems and terrible romance novels about passion.

His hands map every inch of me like I'm territory worth exploring.

He's playful and intense and surprisingly tender, asking if I'm okay, if I like this, if I want more.

I want everything.

Afterward, we lie tangled in his sheets, both of us breathing hard, staring at the ceiling like we've just survived something.

"That was…" I start.

"Yeah," he agrees, grinning at me sideways. "It really was."

I fall asleep in his arms, warm and sated and thinking that maybe, maybe, this could be something.