18. Sylvie
EIGHTEEN
SYLVIE
I groaned and stretched as the last hazy images of my dream floated away. The soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a golden halo upon Duke’s room.
My room .
I still couldn’t believe he had moved himself out of the primary bedroom to give it to me.
I rolled to my back and stared at the walls, painted in a serene shade of sky blue.
Their cool color seemed to hold whispered promises of peace and calm.
I gently placed my socked feet on the timeworn wooden floor.
It creaked softly under my cautious steps, as if sharing in the secrets of this haven as I made my way to the bathroom.
Mornings had become rough, nausea bubbling only seconds after waking if I didn’t manage to scarf down a few crackers.
I swallowed hard and sucked in a breath through my nose.
A faint scent of freshly fallen leaves lingered in the air, mixed with Duke’s woody, masculine smell—a reminder of the man who once claimed this space as his own.
The bed, draped in fluffy white linens, stood as a silent sentinel against one wall.
Its broad expanse was inviting, as if urging me to lie back down, unload my burdens, and find solace.
I could sleep in that bed all damn day if I wasn’t careful.
I imagined the worn quilt draped across the high-back chair, tucked in the corner, had seen quiet nights spent cocooned in dreams and whispered confidences.
I couldn’t help but wonder how many other women had been lucky enough to see Duke’s bedroom.
My gut told me not many—he seemed like the type of man who kept a space like this for only himself. A reprieve.
As I made my way to the bathroom, I traced my fingers along the rough-hewn edges of the wooden furniture, and a shiver of vulnerability coursed through me. Duke, with his gruff exterior and calloused hands, had carved out a haven that spoke of hidden tenderness.
My heart swelled with a mixture of awe and trepidation, a storm of emotions I dared not voice aloud. With every glance, every touch, I found myself craving him.
I am willing to take you in any form you’re willing to give me. You have my word that I will be the best father to our kid.
Maybe it was pregnancy hormones like the internet suggested, but whatever it was, I couldn’t get him out of my head.
I was learning that Duke was fiercely protective of those in his circle.
People looked to him for answers, and he felt it was his job to produce results.
He shouldered the pressure of caring for his father, his family, the farm, and its workers.
He was up before the sun and put in more work before lunch than anyone I knew.
When Duke said he would step up and be a good father for our child, I wholeheartedly believed him.
Morning sickness finally reared its head, and once I was emptied out, I washed my face and got ready for my day.
Thankfully, I had stuffed a few crackers in the bedside table, and the carbs were enough to get me down the stairs without throwing up again.
I had learned that if I could make it to breakfast, my stomach could settle enough to trudge through the day with only mild, lingering nausea.
The air held a chill, so I stuffed my arms into the fur-lined flannel I loved.
When I put my hands into the pockets, paper crinkled against my fingertips.
I pulled out a sticky note, along with a few sour candies, specifically labeled for pregnancy-related morning sickness.
I popped one in and read the note, written in Duke’s hasty scrawl:
Daryl,
tea is ready to brew if you’re up for it. There are more sour candies in the cupboard if they work.
~Oates
I snickered at his use of our ridiculous nicknames. Had I known they would become a thing , I probably would have chosen better ones. Something sexier or less masculine when he thinks of me.
I glanced at the countertop to see a mug and tea bag waiting for me, along with my bottle of prenatal vitamins.
My fingertips dragged across the cool surface of the quartz countertop.
On the stovetop, a teakettle had already been filled and was waiting for me to heat it up.
The sour candies settled my bubbling tummy as I waited.
When it was ready, I let the tea warm my belly.
Somehow it just tasted better because Duke had thought to get it ready for me.
In the two weeks I had been living here, I’d learned Duke often left before sunrise but found subtle, tiny ways to think of me or put my needs first.
It was the first time since finding out I was pregnant I allowed myself to believe things might actually work out in the end. Duke seemed determined to coparent with me and be an active partner throughout my pregnancy. With a smile, I pulled out my phone.
How did you know about the candies?
John Oates
I have Google.
I smiled down at his gruff, no-nonsense response. He might not think it was a big deal, but having someone anticipate your needs was new and something I could definitely get used to. I knew Duke was likely somewhere on the farm, but my slow waking meant I was already running behind for work.
Once I made the drive to town, the Sugar Bowl was just opening.
A few older patrons were milling around the front entrance as Huck unlocked it and welcomed them inside.
The aroma of fresh coffee was enticing, but I’d learned that while it smelled amazing, it was harsh on my stomach and would make a reappearance just as quickly.
I was also trying to be mindful of caffeine, since my doctor said no more than one or two cups per day.
Plastering on a cheery smile, I tied my apron over my Sugar Bowl shirt and jeans before making my way into the main dining area.
As my first trimester was coming to a close, my burrito baby had subtly transformed into a tiny pregnancy bump.
I only hoped my morning sickness would ease up as I entered my second trimester.
The baby book I had been reading said it was possible.
Promises. Promises.
Soft conversations filtered over the sounds of the ding of the register and gurgling whistle of the espresso machine. I wiped down open tables, checked on diners, and offered friendly smiles to those who passed by the large front window.
“...kicked her out. Told her no Sullivan baby was living under a roof he paid for.”
I stopped in my tracks as the conversation behind me continued. My ears pricked, and heat flooded my chest.
“With all their family fighting? The pranks? That kid is going to be messed up, for sure.”
“The child will have to pick a side, that’s all I know...”
The not-so-hushed whispers of the gossiping women grated on my nerves. I couldn’t help but to imagine their shocked faces as I screamed the answers to all the whispers I’d caught happening behind my back over the past few weeks.
Yes! I am eleven weeks pregnant with Duke Sullivan’s baby! YES, THAT MEANS WE HAD SEX! Of course it was amazing. Yes, I am living with him. No, we aren’t still fucking. Yes, I wish we were!
Oh, shit.
I hadn’t allowed my mind to wander in that particular direction. I knew my pregnancy hormones were the reason I couldn’t seem to keep much food down, but I was also blaming them for the wild dreams I had been having of Duke.
Hot, naked, intense dreams.
Trouble was, I knew the reality of Duke’s gigantic, beautiful dick was even better than the dreams.
Frustrated, I turned on my heels and hit the ladies with the sweetest smile I could muster.
My glance flickered to their long-empty coffee cups.
“All finished, or should I give you a few more minutes to talk about people and pretend they can’t hear?
” Their stunned eyes widened. “No?” I swiped the coffee cups in one motion. “Have the day that you deserve!”
Huck stared at me as I sailed past him and into the kitchen. I dumped the cups into the sink with a clatter and braced my hands against the counter. Behind me, I heard the familiar squeak of the saloon doors.
I turned to my boss and held up my hands. “I know. I’m sorry. I lost my cool.”
Huck shook his head and gestured toward the dining room. “As far as I’m concerned, you did nothing wrong. I let them know if they can’t speak kindly to my staff, they can find a new coffee shop.”
Huck crossed his arms and looked at me with kindness, not pity. Tears welled in my eyes, and I launched myself forward, wrapping him in a hug. His crossed arms stayed wedged between us as I struggled to get my arms all the way around his broad frame.
When I released him, he looked at me with pinched brows. “You good?”
A laugh slipped out. Who the hell knows how I am? “Yeah, I’m good.”
By the time my shift was over, my feet were throbbing and my back ached. It had become my nightly ritual to slip into a hot bath, and tonight it couldn’t come soon enough.
My body couldn’t decide if it wanted to be sick or railed into next week.
Probably both.
Through Duke I had learned that the farm was 325 acres, 125 of which were the rows and rows of blueberry fields.
The farm kept him busy, and he often worked long hours—he walked the fields, repaired equipment.
It also appeared as though he had a close relationship with his workers.
He treated them with kindness and respect, and they welcomed my presence on the farm with warm smiles and friendly waves.
In the afternoons, I liked to get a little exercise by walking in the fields.
Duke let me know that while technically it was his property, he considered the section dedicated to the homes for the migrant workers their personal space.
He maintained the homes when needed but for the most part allowed them to live in peace and privacy without their boss overlooking their every move.