The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

1. Chapter One

July

Present Day

New York City

Samantha stood at the second-story window, hand pressing into the small of her back, gaze locked on the canary-yellow moving truck parked along the curb. The tailgate wasup, rails extended, exactly how it had been for the last two hours. “What’s taking him so long?”

Margaret, Samantha's roommate for the last twelve months, came to stand by her side, placing a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder as her brows furrowed against the sun. “Think he’s nervous?”

“Tristan Montgomery?” Samantha laughed, but her eyes raked over his back. The sun had illuminated his profile, and his stoic expression was difficult to read. Tristan was talking to Mr. Covington, his muscular legs braced apart, hisarm reaching toward the roll-up door at the back of the truck. He wore fitted jeans, and a sliver of tanned skin revealed itself from the bottom of his white cotton shirt as he pulled the door shut.

“Nervous about what?” Sam turned toward her roommate.

“I don’t know,” Margaret answered. “Maybe because he’s about to spend the next four days alone with his estranged girlfriend. You know—the one who’s about to give birth to his child.”

Sam pushed against the window and headed for the kitchen. “It’s not like that…” But she nervously kneaded at the thin denim fabric of her maternity overalls, betraying the facade of calm she was struggling to maintain. Bile crept up her throat, and she forced herself to swallow the acidity that had plagued her for the past three months. She walked toward the fridge and hauled open the door, yanking the jug of milk from the barren top shelf. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mags,” she whispered, tilting the jug to her lips and chugging directly from the bottle. She’d given up caring about milk etiquette after her thousandth vomit.

Maggie laughed. “Well, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but if you can’t spend the next four days with the man, the next eighteen years are going to be a real shit show.”

Sam lowered the container and involuntarily glanced toward the window. She tried to find humor in the whole situationbutcouldn’t find a single sliver of something to laugh about. If she couldn’t spend four days with Tristan Montgomery, how on earth would they raise a child together?

Male voices came from the stairwell. Margaret raised her brows and pushed herself from the window. She sprinted toward the kitchen and leaned against the counter, stretching her legs in front of her like she’d been there all day. Sam, who hadn’t been doing anything but drinking milk, hid the jug behind her back.

“I think that’s everything,” Mr. Covington’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “Ten sculptures, two boxes, and one jar of homemade marmalade that Mrs. Covington sent along especially for you. Once we grab Samantha’s bags—” Mr. Covington’s tone was almost sad. “The two of you should be on your way. New York traffic isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.”

“Okay,” Tristan answered, but his tone was different. Businesslike, so unlike the rich and warm voice that had lulled her to sleep on too many occasions to count.

Everything went silent. No footfalls, no whispers, no shuffling on the wooden steps to indicate they’d come closer. Sam held her breath, listening, waiting, her heartbeat so heavy she could feel its thud in her throat.

Four months had passed since she’d been face to face with Tristan Montgomery—four months since they’d stood in the same room together, yet it was at this moment she realized she had to pee. She glanced toward the bathroom, wondering if she could make it before?—

Tristan appeared on the top step.

“I appreciate your help,” he said to Mr. Covington.

Sam’s knees weakened. No matter how many times she came face to face with Tristan, he always took her breath away. Not because he was handsome but because he was effortlessly so. He was no social media thirst trap. Not manufactured with hours at the gym, tanning beds, and salons. Tristan took up space with a mop of dirty blond hair, aface covered with stubble, and a body sculpted by hours of hard labor. His chiseled jaw was that of a movie star—the slight bend to his nose from his years of playing football added character. The dimple on his right cheek balanced his face so well it was as if God himself had planned it from the beginning.

She found herself staring into a set of reflective aviator glasses instead of the hypnotizing blue eyes she missed, and a frown had carved its way through his full lips.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. For him to be happy? Emotional? Sad? Then she recognized that expression—the bored expression of a jock. The cocky, self-assured mask he wore throughout high school, yet one he’d never directed at her until today.

Emotion gathered in her throat. She swallowed hard, pulling in a painful breath as she glanced toward the floor. For the first time in months, she came face to face with the fact that things were different, their relationship was broken, but … she still loved him.

She’d never stopped.

The realization caused her chest to ache.

She averted her eyes to the window as the past six months flashed before her eyes, brighter than floodlights on a football field. Since December, she’d worked as hard as she could, went to doctor’s appointments, had sonograms, and read every baby book she could get her hands on. She made it through each day so exhausted that she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Her goal had been to fulfill her contract with Mr. Covington and The Gallery, to build a name for herself and her art. She’d done exactly that, built a life and a career that would offer continued success and enough money to sustain her lifestyle for the next few years—yet she’d been numb through it all.

Keeping busy had been her coping mechanism for as long as she could remember. The way she’d gotten through six years of a loveless relationship with Steven, how she’d managed too many disappointments to count—because the busier she was, the more success she accumulated, the easier things were to forget. The easier it was to ignore the void in her chest and forget all that had happened leading up to now.

The second he stepped into her apartment, things changed. Seeing Tristan was like a slap back to reality she wasn’t ready for. Like opening a closet full of baggage she’d tried to hide, and now having it spill into the room like piles of neglected laundry.

Margaret stared at her with a crazed, panicked expression. “Are you okay?” she whispered, blinking excessively as if she were sending Morse code.

Sam nodded mechanically and turned to face Tristan again. “Tristan, this is my roommate, Margaret. Margaret, this is...” Her voice broke off. Tristan hadn’t moved from his spot, but the tension in his jaw made her instinctively take a step backward. “Tristan Montgomery,” she finally stammered out. How else did she introduce him? As her ex? The father of her unborn child? Her friend?

Was he a friend?

Margaret and Tristan exchanged awkward “hellos,” then Margaret took a few backward steps, grabbing Mr. Covington by the elbow. “Can I borrow you?” she whispered. “I think they need a moment.”

Samantha had spent twelve months within these walls, building a career, friendships … a makeshift family. She knew this was Margaret’s way of giving them space.

Mr. Covington nodded, and soon, their whispered mumbles trailed down the steps until she and Tristan were alone.

Sam straightened her shoulders, trying to get a grip on her emotions so she could face Tristan without falling apart. She had her unborn child to think about. Their future. The next eighteen years of parenting with a man who couldn’t even bring himself to look at her.

Breathe Samantha. Deep breaths. One step at a time.

Yet the entire space percolated with emotions so thick it was impossible to breathe. Sam shoved herself from the counter, determined to shake it off and get on with the day. She dropped one arm to her side, then set the milk jug on the counter, allowing her third-trimester belly more room to breathe.

Even through his dark glasses, she could see his focus shift downward. It had been months since he’d last seen her, and there was no denying she looked different.

“You look...” He stepped forward, his throat visibly tightening.

Her hand came to rest on her stomach, her gaze landing on the bump that housed their unborn child. “He’s getting big,” she stated, unable to stop her mind from whirling with all the possibilities of what Tristan might be thinking.

At nearly twenty-eight weeks pregnant, she didn’t quite feel like herself these days. Her body was larger in every way possible. Her stomach, breasts, and even her thighs bore stretch marks from rapid growth. Most days, she saw pregnancy as nothing short of a miracle, but standing here now, aware of how much her body had changed from the woman he’d made love to on too many occasions to count, made all her insecurities flare up in her chest. Was he pleased? Disappointed? Indifferent?

“He?” Tristan asked, his voice rough.

She looked up, finding he’d moved closer, so close she could practically feel his heat on her skin.

“Or she.” She crumbled up her fingers and anchored them to her thighs. There was an emotion in his voice that left her shaken, yet he still wore those damned aviator glasses, and it took all her restraint not to pull them from his face so she could look into his eyes. “That was our agreement,” she continued, forcing herself to still. “We’ll find out the gender at the baby shower in L.A.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she tilted her head to search his face—the man she’d known better than the back of her own hand but who now seemed like a stranger. “Do you really think I’d go back on my word?” Her voice shook, almost begging him to disagree.

Three seconds passed. He stood there still, his silence filling her chest with something heavier than concrete. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” His words weren’t cruel nor angry, but his honesty hurt worse than a thousand bee stings on blistered skin.

She nodded once, feeling the knot in her throat grow raw. She'd awoken that morning with thehope that things would be different, hope that time apart would have healed the hurt enough so they could at least talk. Standing there now, she realized it had been a fantasy. The damage was too great, the hurt too big.

They would be co-parentsandpartners. Possibly, with enough time, they could be friends.

The baby kicked—swiftly to her ribs––making her jump.

“You okay?” Tristan asked, his fingers grazing her skin as he grabbed her elbow.

She glanced down at his hand, realizing it was comfort offered on impulse, yet every cell in her body had to resist the urge to lean into him.

For years, he had been her rock, her shoulder to cry on, his arms offering safety and support.

“Yes.” She stepped away, turning toward the hallway and the bathroom that would offer her solitude. “But I really need to pee.”