Chapter Six-Andrea
I beeline it for the kitchen the second I can breathe again.
The Callahan estate is sprawling, and I’ve been here enough times to know the ins and outs.
I slip through the house, the cool marble tiles passing soundlessly beneath my sandals, and immediately head for the fridge.
Not for food. Not for wine. Just the freezer and some ice.
It’s like I have literal, emotional, and sexual whiplash.
I yank open the freezer drawer, grab a handful of cubes from the dispenser, and press them to my wrist like some kind of Victorian woman with a case of the vapors.
If anyone saw me, they’d think I was trying to cool down from a hot flash.
Which, okay, maybe I am.
Because Remy Falco just whispered Andy in that voice and my body went into full recall mode like we’re back on the island, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, orgasm to—”Oh my God.”
I jump and whirl around, ice cubes clattering to the floor.
“Jesus, Clemmie! Could you not sneak up on people like that?”
Clementine Callahan—voluptuous, glowing, lucky third-time mom-to-be—leans against the kitchen island like she didn’t just catch me molesting the ice.
She crosses her arms and raises one knowing brow.
“You okay there, cuz? You look a little, um, flushed.”
“Hot,” I say too quickly. “It’s hot in here.”
“In the air-conditioned kitchen.”
“Yes. Climate change is real.”
She says nothing.
Just watches me as I crouch to pick up a stray cube that’s melting into the tile like my dignity.
When I rise, she’s still staring.
“What?”
“Remy Falco,” she says, tone innocent, eyes anything but.
“What about Remy Falco?” I deflect, slipping the now half-melted cube into the sink.
Clemmie grins like a cat who knows exactly where the bird is hiding.
“Just wondering why my single, usually composed cousin is acting like she got caught sneaking her high school boyfriend in through the window.”
I roll my eyes.
“Please. If I had a high school boyfriend, maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Oh, so you admit there’s a situation.”
Damn it.
“Not that kind of situation,” I say, though I’m a horrible liar and Clemmie’s always been better at reading people than is fair.
She comes closer, her voice softer now.
“Look, Andrea, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you need a place to hide, or stay, or cry, or scream, I’ve got you. You know that, right?”
Something tightens in my chest. Because I do know that.
This family? They drive me absolutely insane.
But they’d also commit actual, real-life, punishable-by-prison war crimes for me, no questions asked.
Which is both comforting and terrifying depending on the day.
“Thanks,” I whisper, blinking too fast and hating myself for it. “I just, I thought maybe something might’ve come of it. And now I don’t know.”
Clementine tilts her head. Her face does that gentle therapist thing, all soft lines and concern. “Of what?”
I hesitate. Swallow. Then mutter, “Shit. Okay, so I’m thirty-two. An adult. And well, I want to have a kid. And I kinda sorta spent the night with Remy.”
Her gasp is so loud I almost slap a hand over her mouth.
“Oh my GOD! I knew it!”
“Shhh! I don’t need the whole Clan to know I rode the human embodiment of a sex dream like a stolen Vespa,” I hiss, eyes darting around the kitchen.
Too late.
Here come more cousins, strutting in like backup singers sensing the crescendo.
“You two look like you’re up to something. Soooo, what’s doing?” Lucy asks, pausing mid-sip of what I think is iced tea, but could be one of those exotic fruit concoctions Balor is always making for her.
“Andrea has a secret man,” Clementine immediately blurts.
Narc. I shove her arm playfully.
“Seriously?” Lucy’s face lights up.
“Oh my God.” Michaela’s already grabbing a throw pillow like she’s preparing for a juicy telenovela reveal.
“SHHH!” I hiss again, wild-eyed. “For the love of all that is holy, can we not announce my sex life during cocktail hour?”
“Too late,” Leanna says, sliding onto the counter with a grin. “This train has left the station.”
“Let’s go into the nursing room,” Clementine declares, grabbing my hand and marching me off like a naughty toddler.
Behind us, a whole parade of estrogen follows. I glance back to see the guys still manning the grill-slash-daycare area and our mothers holding court near the wine bar like a pack of mafia dons.
Inside the nursery—aka the peaceful, pastel-decorated sanctuary Connor designed for his missus, the lucky heifer—I’m immediately the center of a semicircle of judgment, curiosity, and love.
So, I do what any panicked Volkov would do in my position.
I spill my entire fucking guts.
I tell them about Remy.
The heat. The passion.
The way he kissed me like I was something holy and untouchable.
The way he made me come so hard it hurt.
The ache that hasn’t gone away since.
And yes, the stupid little part of me that let myself hope that maybe—just maybe—that night was the beginning of something more.
“And now,” I say, dry and bitter and too honest, “I cry when the pregnancy test comes up negative.”
The room goes silent.
Even Gigi the stuffed elephant on the shelf looks stunned.
Michaela’s mouth drops open.
Lucy winces in sympathy.
Leanna makes a soft, oh-no sound.
Aella stares at me like I just peeled off a mask and revealed my squishy, soft underbelly.
But Clementine? She doesn’t even flinch.
“Oh, Andrea,” she whispers, reaching for my hand.
“I know,” I say too fast, trying to laugh it off. “It’s stupid, right? Me, wanting to be a mom. Like some kind of Pinterest-worshipping cliché.”
“No,” she says. “It’s not stupid. It’s brave.”
“Maybe a little reckless,” Aella adds with a smirk, “but hey, what’s a little reproductive chitchat between cousins?”
“Not the first woman in this family to take fate into her own hands,” Clementine says firmly.
“I mean, there is a precedent for that sort of thing,” Lucy mutters. “I think half of us were conceived out of chaos and hot tempers.”
“Except me,” Leanna offers, deadpan. “I was an oops baby after Mom and Dad thought they were done.”
“You were not!” Her sister yells.
“You’re the one who told me that,” Leanna counters.
“Oh my God, I was being a brat, sis.”
We all snort.
“Andrea,” Michaela says gently, turning to me, “being a parent isn’t a light choice. It’s hard and scary and endless. But it’s also the most beautiful, soul-crushing love I’ve ever known. If it’s what you want—really want—then don’t let anyone make you feel small for dreaming it.”
I nod, even as my throat tightens.
“Look, I’m not saying go rogue and start hoarding sperm,” Aella says, “but Remy Falco has world-class genes. I mean, have you seen his forearms? If I wasn’t so hung up on Sammy, I’d let him hand-deliver triplets into my uterus.”
“Jesus, Aella,” Lucy groans.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being creepy and supportive,” I mutter, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my blouse.
“Oh, I can be both,” she winks.
“You’re not alone,” Clementine reminds me softly. “Whatever happens. Baby or no baby. Love or no love. We’re here.”
Before I can cry all over her Chanel throw pillows, someone starts calling our names from the patio.
Dinner time.
Show time.
Time to pretend I’m not wildly spiraling inside.
The girls rise one by one, offering little squeezes and kisses on the cheek and gentle reassurances. But Lucy lingers.
She leans in close and whispers, “Behave yourself, Andrea, or don’t. But if you don’t take advantage of a man who looks at you like Remy Falco does? That’s basically a crime against humanity. And excellent abs.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky.
And then I’m alone in the nursery.
Just me and the plush bears and the scent of baby lotion and possibility.
By the time I walk out and see him again, standing by the grill in a crisp button-down with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes tracking me like I’m the only person at this damn party?
I know there’s no hiding.
Not from him.
Not from this dream I haven’t quite let go of.
So, I make a decision.
If fate gave me one night and it wasn’t enough?
Maybe it’s time to take matters into my own hands.