Chapter 2 #2
"We're getting married in Alaska. Everything is basically an ice sculpture." Tessa pinches the bridge of her nose like she's fighting off a migraine. "Okay. Okay. Let me think."
Tessa stares at me for a long moment. Then she starts the truck.
"Where are we going?" I ask nervously.
"To my place. Where you're going to stay. And eat. And rest. And then—" She glances at me with an expression that's equal parts exasperation and affection. "Then we're going to figure out what the hell to do about Trace."
"We could just not tell him?" I suggest weakly.
"Patrice."
"Or I could go back to Florida right now?"
"PATRICE."
"Fake my own death?"
The drive to Ashwood Falls takes about two and a half hours, and Tessa spends the entire time alternating between lecturing me about communication and asking increasingly specific questions about my pregnancy. Due date. Doctor appointments. Cravings. Whether I know the sex.
"I don't," I admit. "I wanted to be surprised."
"Of course you did," Tessa mutters. "Because nothing about this situation is surprising enough already."
When we finally pull up to the cabin she shares with Gage, I'm exhausted, starving, and desperately need to pee again. The cabin looks exactly like something out of a wilderness magazine—all wood and windows and smoke curling from the chimney.
"Gage is at work," Tessa says, killing the engine. "Which gives us time to strategize before—"
The front door opens, and a large, bearded man steps out onto the porch.
Not Gage.
Trace.
My brain short-circuits. My heart attempts to escape through my throat. And my hands instinctively move to cover my stomach even though there's literally no way to hide it at this point.
He's holding a toolbox and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looks exactly like I remember—maybe better, which seems cosmically unfair—and his eyes lock onto mine through the windshield.
Then they drop to my stomach.
His face goes through about seventeen emotions in three seconds: confusion, shock, realization, and something that might be anger or panic or both.
"Oh shit," Tessa whispers.
"Oh shit," I agree.
Trace sets down the toolbox very carefully, like he's worried he might drop it. Or throw it. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see it from here.
Then he starts walking toward the truck.
"What do I do?" I hiss at Tessa.
"I don't know! This wasn't supposed to happen yet!"
"Should I run?"
"You can barely walk!"
Trace reaches the passenger side door and yanks it open. Cold air rushes in, along with the overwhelming presence of a man who's just had his entire world flipped upside down.
"Patrice," he says, and his voice is rough and low and vibrating with barely controlled emotion.
"Hi," I squeak. "Funny running into you here."
His eyes drop to my belly again, then back to my face. "How far along are you?"
"Um. Seven months. Give or take."
I watch him do the math. Watch his expression shift from confusion to absolute certainty.
"Where," he says slowly, each word measured and dangerous, "is the father?"
My throat closes up. This is it. This is the moment.
But before I can answer, his expression hardens into something protective and furious all at once. "Because if some asshole got you pregnant and then left you to deal with this alone, I swear to God—"
"Trace," Tessa starts, but he ignores her.
"You flew across the country seven months pregnant," he continues, and there's real anger in his voice now. Not at me—at whoever he thinks is responsible. "Without the father? What kind of man does that? What kind of—"
"Stop," I manage, but it comes out weak.
"You should be at home. You should be resting. You shouldn't be traveling alone in your condition, and where the hell is he? Why isn't he here taking care of you?"
The alpha-male protectiveness in his voice—the assumption that I need taking care of, that I can't handle this myself—lights a fire in my chest.
"I don't need anyone to take care of me," I snap, finding my voice. "I've been handling this just fine on my own."
"Clearly," he shoots back, gesturing at me in the truck. "Flying across the country alone while seven months pregnant is definitely handling it."
"That's not—you don't understand—"
"Then help me understand!" His voice rises, and I can see the hurt beneath the anger now. "Because from where I'm standing, some guy got you pregnant and bailed, and you're too stubborn to ask for help."
"He didn't bail!" The words burst out before I can stop them.
"Then where is he?" Trace demands. "Tell me where he is, Patrice. I'll go get him. I'll drag him back here myself if I have to, because no woman should have to—"
"You want to know where the father is?" I shout, my own anger finally breaking free. All the fear and anxiety and months of holding this secret explode out of me. "You want to know where he is?"
"YES!"
I grab the door frame and haul myself out of the truck with more force than grace, standing as tall as I can while seven months pregnant, and glare at him.
"Look in the fucking mirror, Trace!"
The words hang in the freezing air between us.
His face goes blank. Completely blank.
"What?" he says, and his voice is barely a whisper.
I'm shaking now—from cold, from adrenaline, from sheer terror at what I just said. But there's no taking it back now.
"You," I say, voice breaking. "You're the father."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Processing. Computing.
His face goes white. Not pale—completely drained of color, like every drop of blood just evacuated his body. His eyes are wide, unfocused, looking at me but not seeing me.
"You," I say again, voice breaking. "You're the father."
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands open and close at his sides like he's trying to grab onto reality and it keeps slipping through his fingers.
Then, very slowly, he takes a step back.
Then another.
"Trace?" Tessa's voice comes from somewhere behind me, concerned.
He doesn't answer. Just keeps backing away, his eyes never leaving my stomach. His expression is completely blank now, like someone hit the reset button on his entire operating system and nothing's loading.
"I need—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. "I need a minute."
And then he turns and walks away—not quite steady on his feet, moving like someone who just took a hit to the head and is trying to convince everyone he's fine—heading straight for the woodpile at the side of the cabin.
"Should we—" I start, but Tessa grabs my arm.
"Let him process," she says quietly, watching him pick up an axe. "Men like Trace... they need to do something physical when their brain shorts out."
We watch as he positions a log on the chopping block. Raises the axe. Brings it down with enough force that the log doesn't just split—it explodes into pieces.
He sets up another log. And another. And another.
"Is he going to be okay?" I whisper, shivering in the cold air.
"Honestly?" Tessa pulls me toward the cabin. "I have no idea. But you're freezing, and standing out here won't help either of you."
The sound of splitting wood follows us inside—steady, rhythmic, violent.