Chapter 30
thirty
nisha
Not A Dessert
Ibrush the tiny bits of hair from John’s shoulders, unbutton his cape, and turn his chair so the big mirror is behind him. Handing him a small handheld mirror, I smile at how handsome he looks. “There. Tell me what you think. How does the length look in the back?”
He turns his head from side to side. “It looks good, Ms. Nisha. Thank you.”
“Just Nisha,” I remind him, taking the mirror back. “I’ll see you in a few weeks. Don’t forget to add your name to the calendar, okay?”
“Will do. Merry Christmas again.” He waves before heading out, tossing another in Hector and Abby’s direction.
“Merry Christmas,” I call after him before getting my broom and sweeping the area around the salon chair.
The shelter has been buzzing over the past month.
The holiday season always brings in a surge of more people needing a hot meal and blankets, children’s choir groups spreading cheer, and more volunteers bustling through with Santa hats.
Instead of the usual sting of disinfectant, the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls and coffee lingers in the air.
When I finish sweeping, I make my way over to the loveseat crammed in my closet-sized salon.
Hector and Abby are right where they always are when I work here, yarn on their laps and hands focused on their needles.
They’d rather sit with me than be out in the dining area mingling with others, and I don’t mind that one bit.
They’ve been getting closer lately. Hector told me Abby’s even been teaching him to knit.
I doubt he cares about purl stitches, but the man would learn anything she was interested in if it meant spending time with her.
Apparently, she even let him hold her hand on their walk in the park recently.
For Abby, that’s not just progress, that’s basically her baring her soul.
And yet, the way she still keeps her eyes down, sleeves tugged all the way to her palm, I know her walls aren’t all the way down, at least not yet.
Hector rises to his feet, waving at the seat he just vacated. “Ms. Arora, please sit. You’ve been on your feet for hours.”
Settling in beside Abby, I don’t argue because he’s right. It’s been a nonstop morning. “Hector, you’ve got to stop calling me Ms. Arora.”
He flashes me the same sheepish grin that says he has no intention of changing a thing before heading to take a seat on my salon chair until the next customer comes in.
Abby shifts beside me, rummaging in her worn cloth bag before taking out something wrapped in green tissue paper. She hands it to me with a small smile. “I . . . I hope you like it.”
My chest squeezes. “You got me something? Abby, that’s . . . that’s so kind of you.”
“It’s nothing fancy. Just something for”—she nods to my now obvious baby bump—“the little one.”
I swallow thickly, gently unfolding the paper, and a breath catches in my chest.
Nestled inside is a tiny knitted jumpsuit in every shade of pink with intricate stitches and neat handiwork. My fingers brush over the oversized buttons along the front and back for easy diaper changes.
My eyes water, and I quickly dab the tear threatening to escape at the corner of my eye. “You made this? Abby, this is . . . beautiful.” I turn to her, brows furrowed. “But I only just told you about the ultrasound a couple of weeks ago. How could you have made this so quickly?”
She gives me a hesitant smile. “You’d mentioned you thought it was a girl well before the ultrasound.” She shrugs. “I trusted your intuition and started making this weeks ago.”
Placing the jumper on my lap, I wrap my arms around her, feeling her stiffen for a moment before she yields to my embrace. “Thank you. This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.”
She pats my back, letting me hug her. “I’m glad you like it.”
I wipe my cheek and marvel at the little outfit in my hands.
I’m almost twenty-two weeks along. Twenty-two.
And though I can still hardly believe our little bean is now the size of a sweet potato, I can finally feel her moving inside me.
They started off as tiny flutters but have recently turned into little kicks that Patton swears are directed at him because they always commence whenever he’s around.
It’s as if she can’t wait to leap into his arms.
Life has shifted so quickly over the past couple of months, I can hardly keep up. Patton and Bob moved into my house soon after we got back from Cabo, and I can honestly say it has never been as warm or chaotic.
Just this week alone, I’ve found my underwear and camisole hidden under Bob’s bed.
Besides the barely-functional dildo and my old bra, our four-legged klepto is basically operating a drool-soaked lingerie store in our house.
I’m not going to lie, it’s a little unnerving that both Beaver and Bob have shoplifting tendencies.
Oh, and my previously straightened throw pillows? Those are a thing of the past, since Bob has made it his life’s mission to dig under them like he’s hunting for gold.
I’ve also learned a few more things about my ex-husband during this time. Like that he has very strong opinions about whether the baby needs blackout curtains or sheer ones in her room, or whether I should be “allowed” to take showers unattended.
So, aside from assembling cribs and researching the safest rocking chairs on the planet—all while finishing additional scenes for his film, officially named The Winning Pitch—Patton has basically transformed into a very attractive helicopter husband.
He’s made it impossible for me to do almost anything alone, insisting that someone be around me twenty-four/seven.
It’s equal parts ridiculous and annoying, but also kind of sweet, and I have to remind myself that this is exactly what I asked for, what I wanted all those years ago.
And this time, he’s here for all of it. He’s here for me.
As soon as he moved in, Patton’s team descended on my house like a team of covert operatives, wiring it with a state-of-the-art security system that probably outshines the Pentagon’s. They claimed it was “non-negotiable,” given who Patton is and how even more important our privacy is now.
I grumbled about the intrusion at first, but I’ve come to understand its importance. We live in a gated community and stay low-key, but given how crazy fans can be, it’s never a bad idea to be extra careful. Let’s face it, some of them make Bob’s underwear obsession seem normal.
But despite all the hovering and treating me like I’m made out of glass, I have to admit this chaotic little life we’re building might be the perfect one for me.
I’m completely gone for the man who assembled our baby’s crib at two in the morning, argues about curtains, and protects me like he’s my personal bodyguard.
We’re also having a baby together. So, if I’m not the luckiest woman alive, I don’t know who is.
I’m folding the baby’s first outfit back inside the tissue paper when I realize Hector has left the room, leaving me and Abby alone. Taking the opportunity to ask her what’s been weighing on my mind for some time, I turn to look at the woman whose hands are once again busy with her needles.
“Hey, Abby?” I clear my throat. “I was wondering if you ever found the thing you were looking for? You know, the reason you said you moved here?”
She sets down her needles, her tired green eyes examining her hands. For a moment I don’t think she’ll answer, but then, like she has a few times before, she surprises me.
“Yes and no.” She takes in a soft breath. “There’s this restaurant downtown. I found what I was looking for there, but I couldn’t find the courage to go in and ask for it.”
My brows knit. “What you’re looking for is inside a restaurant?”
She nods. “It was, yes.”
I study her face, trying to read between the lines.
“Is it like . . . a dish or dessert or something?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not a dessert. Forgiveness.”
I moan, my eyes rolling to the back of my head, feeling myself sink deeper into the sofa. “Oh, God. That feels so good.”
“That’s it, baby. Relax for me,” Patton murmurs, his voice low and approving. His thumb presses into the exact place I need him.
The arch of my foot, that is.
I crack one eye open, smiling when I see the smug look on his face as he massages my swollen feet like he’s a trained masseuse. He might as well be because the man’s hands are currently performing magic.
“You know, if you keep this up, we might just make baby number two before this one’s even out.”
He smirks. “Can I have that in writing?”
I giggle, tilting the magazine in my lap and showing him the photographs of us there. “Speaking of writing . . . Did you know that we’re apparently having triplets?”
Before Patton can examine it, Bob saunters over to see what I’m pointing at. He places his large head on my swollen belly, effectively covering the magazine photos, and stares at me with those droopy eyes I’ve come to love so much.
It’s his way of asking for pets. That, or he somehow senses when I’m even slightly worked up.
I scratch his long ear. “I’m fine, buddy. Just annoyed that, with all their fancy cameras, the paparazzi always manage to make me look like a troll.”
Bob heaves a dramatic sigh, and I can practically hear him say, “I hear you, sister. They never get my good side, either”. Then, as if he’s been reminded of his great misfortunes, he trudges back toward his dog bed with his head lowered to find one of his many treasures.
Earlier this month, Patton helped me get the house Christmas-ready.
After so many years of not having a real tree, we picked one out and decorated it while one of Patton’s films, The Claus and Effect, played in the background.
It’s the one where he played a marriage counselor helping Santa and Mrs. Claus through their tumultuous relationship.
We laughed, nibbled on peppermint bark, and sipped cider.