Chapter 4
Patrice
Tessa has created a war room.
That's the only way to describe what's happened to the living room in the forty-five minutes Trace spent murdering firewood and I sat in the kitchen having an existential crisis.
There are lists. Actual physical lists written on approximately seventeen different colors of sticky notes, arranged across the coffee table in what I can only assume is some kind of organizational system that makes sense to exactly one person on this planet.
"Oh good, you're both here!" Tessa practically bounces off the couch, waving what appears to be a color-coded spreadsheet. "I've been planning!"
"I can see that," I say carefully, because the last time I saw Tessa this enthusiastic about planning something, she organized an office Secret Santa that somehow ended with the entire accounting department in matching reindeer sweaters. "What exactly are we looking at here?"
"Your life." She beams at me like she just announced she solved world hunger. "Or, well, the next eight weeks of your life. And possibly the eighteen years after that, but we'll start with the immediate priorities."
Trace and I exchange a look that roughly translates to should we be concerned or terrified?
"Babe," Gage says from his position by the fireplace, where he's been wisely staying out of whatever this is. "Maybe ease them into it?"
"There's no time for easing! She's having a baby in eight weeks!" Tessa gestures at my stomach like it's a ticking time bomb. "Do you know how much there is to do? So much, Gage. SO MUCH."
"I'm aware," I say, sinking onto the couch because standing is overrated when you're seven months pregnant and emotionally exhausted. "I've been living with this reality for a while now."
"But you've been living with it alone," Tessa counters, and there's no accusation in her voice—just fierce, protective love that makes my throat tight. "Now you've got us. Which means we're going to make sure you're ready."
Trace settles onto the couch next to me—close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him but not quite touching. Like he's not sure if he's allowed yet. The uncertainty is oddly endearing coming from a man who looks like he could bench-press a small car.
"Okay," he says, leaning forward to study the sticky note chaos. "Walk us through it."
Tessa's eyes light up with the intensity of someone who's been waiting her entire life for this exact question. She grabs the first list with the flourish of a game show host revealing a prize.
"First priority: housing. Patrice, where are you planning to stay?"
The question hits like a bucket of ice water. "I've got a hotel room. The Moosehead Lodge here in Ashwood Falls for the weekend, then I have a place booked in Anchorage for my first week. I start work Monday, so I'll apartment hunt during the week and—"
"Wait." Trace leans forward, his expression darkening. "You're staying at a hotel? This weekend? While you're here?"
"Yes? That's what people do when they travel, Trace. They stay in hotels."
"Not seven months pregnant people," he says, and there's that edge in his voice again. "Not when—" He stops himself, jaw clenching. "Where are you staying after the wedding?"
"I just told you. Anchorage. For my new job."
"And tonight? Tomorrow night?"
"The Moosehead Lodge," I repeat slowly, like I'm talking to someone who doesn't speak English. "I made a reservation."
"Cancel it."
Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at him.
"Excuse me?" I say carefully.
"Cancel the reservation." Trace stands, and suddenly the living room feels smaller. "You're not staying at some hotel. You're staying at my place. With me."
"With you?" The words come out higher than I intended. "We barely know each other!"
"We know each other well enough that you're carrying my child," he shoots back. "That's not staying at a hotel territory. That's staying with family territory."
"We're not family—"
"We will be in two months!" His voice rises, and I can see him fighting for control.
"You flew across the country seven months pregnant alone.
You hid this from me for months. And now you're telling me you're planning to stay in a hotel and then just..
. what? Move to Anchorage and apartment hunt while seven months pregnant? "
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," I snap, standing too—which is significantly less dramatic when it takes three tries and a hand on the armrest. "Because that's my plan. My life. My decision."
"Our baby," he corrects, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "Our responsibility. And you're not doing this alone anymore."
"Trace," Gage says quietly from his spot by the fireplace. "Maybe—"
"No." Trace doesn't look away from me. "She's not staying at a hotel. End of discussion."
"You don't get to make that call," I say, even though part of me—a tired, scared part—wants to let him.
"Fine." He crosses his arms. "Then stay here. With Tessa and Gage."
"I—" I turn to Tessa, who's been watching this exchange like a tennis match. "If that's okay?"
"Of course it's okay!" Tessa says immediately. "You're always welcome here, you know that."
"They only have one bedroom," Trace says flatly.
Everyone freezes.
"What?" I ask.
"One bedroom." He gestures around the cabin. "This place is cozy, which is great for two people. Not great for three people, one of whom is seven months pregnant and probably needs a ton of pillows to sleep."
"We could make it work," Tessa starts, but Gage is already shaking his head.
"He's right," Gage says, and he actually looks apologetic about it. "We've got the couch, but it's not exactly comfortable for someone in your condition. And the guest room we have isn't really set up as a bedroom yet—we've been using it for storage."
Trace seizes on this immediately. "I have three bedrooms. One for me, two guest rooms. One of them is already set up with a bed, dresser, everything you'd need. The other could be a nursery if you wanted to stay longer."
"I'm not staying longer," I say automatically. "I have a job in Anchorage."
"For now, then." He softens his tone slightly. "Just for the time you’re in Ashwood Falls. Through the wedding. Then we can figure out the rest."
"I don't need your pity," I hear myself say, and my voice comes out smaller than I intended. "Or your obligation."
Something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger. "You think that's all I'd offer?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and complicated.
"I don't know what you'd offer," I admit quietly. "We don't know each other, Trace. Not really."
"Then let's fix that." He takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "Stay at my place. Just for the weekend. Give me a chance to—" He pauses, searching for words. "To be here. To help. To figure this out with you instead of watching you do it alone from the sidelines."
My throat feels tight. This would be so much easier if he was an asshole. If he'd freaked out and run away, or demanded a paternity test, or done any of the things I'd imagined when I pictured telling him.
But he's here. Offering help. Looking at me like I'm more than a problem he has to solve.
And I'm so tired. So scared. So done with pretending I have everything under control.
"Okay," I whisper. "Just for the weekend."
Tessa makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed squeal.
"I'll get your suitcase," Trace says, already heading for the door.
"Wait—" I start, but he's gone, the cold air rushing in before the door swings shut behind him.
"Well," Tessa says, bouncing on her toes. "That went better than expected."
"Better?" I stare at her. "I just agreed to stay with a man I barely know!"
"A man who's the father of your baby," she corrects. "And who clearly wants to step up. That's good, Patrice. That's really good."
"That's terrifying," I mutter as I sit back down on the couch.
Gage moves closer, his voice gentle. "For what it's worth, Trace is one of the most solid guys I know. Former Navy SEAL. We saw some bad stuff overseas, came home, and he built himself a life here. He doesn't do anything halfway. If he says he's in, he's in."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I admit. "What if I can't—what if this doesn't—"
"One day at a time," Tessa says, squeezing my hand. "That's all any of us can do."
Before I can spiral further, Trace is back with my purple suitcase, snowflakes dusting his hair and shoulders like he's stepped out of some rustic winter catalog.
"Ready?" he asks, and I can see the uncertainty in his eyes too. Like he's just as unsure about this as I am.
"Not even a little bit."
"Fair enough." He holds out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, I take it.
His palm is warm, calloused, steady. He helps me up from the couch—which, again, takes more effort than my pride would like—and suddenly we're standing too close and I can smell cedar and winter air and something distinctly him.
"Thank you," I manage. "For... this."
"Don't thank me yet," he says, but there's something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth. "You haven't seen my place since that night. Might change your mind."
Tessa hugs me goodbye—tighter than necessary, whispering "call me if you need anything" in my ear—and then Trace and I are walking out into the cold night. He opens the passenger door of his truck, waiting until I'm settled before closing it gently and loading my suitcase in the back.
The drive to his cabin is short—maybe twenty minutes down a snow-covered road that winds through dense forest. Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. The heater blows warm air that does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my chest.