Those Three Little Words

Penny: Am I sending this text message to Blakely? Just triple-checking before I state what I need to state.

Blakely: Confirmed, you are texting Blakely, your best friend. You may proceed with all embarrassing things.

Penny: What is the secret password to receive all embarrassing text messages?

Blakely: Penis breath

Penny: And the pin number?

Blakely: 3003 < – – boob

Penny: And your mother’s maiden name?

Blakely: Honker Hoo Hoo < – – made up for our benefit

Penny: Lastly, the last four digits of your social security number.

Blakely: 4398

Penny: Processing . . . processing . . .

Blakely: *crosses fingers*

Penny: We have confirmed that you are, in fact, Blakely. Please wait for incoming embarrassment.

Blakely: *pins and needles*

Penny: I threw up in Eli’s shoe.

Blakely: WHAT? How?

Penny: He was in the bathroom, taking a shower, and I was in the closet trying to pick out an outfit for the day that didn’t touch me in a weird way. Recently, I’ve been feeling every thread in my clothes, and it’s really starting to drive me nuts.

Blakely: It’s an odd pregnancy side effect. I’ll agree to that. But please, back to the shoe.

Penny: I was attempting to pick out an outfit when a bout of nausea hit me. Since I haven’t thrown up since I started having morning sickness, I didn’t think much of it, but then I started to sweat.

Blakely: The sweats, nothing speaks more like a warning flag than the sweats.

Penny: And I wasn’t about to barge through the bathroom door, because he was naked and in the shower. I felt something coming up soon, so I found the closest vessel I could find, and it happened to be Eli’s shoe.

Blakely: Please describe the shoe.

Penny: Black loafer that he wears often with his suits, bedazzled in my regurgitated food.

Blakely: I know precisely what pair you’re talking about.

Penny: I threw up in it, and then I realized I threw up in a shoe and then threw up again. Strangely, my accuracy was impeccable.

Blakely: What did you do with the shoe?

Penny: That’s the worst part. Eli was looking for those particular shoes to wear to the arena today. He said they’re his lucky shoes against the Freeze.

Blakely: Did you give him the puke-soaked shoe?

Penny: No! Are you insane? I couldn’t tell him I just puked in his shoe.

Blakely: Then what did you do?

Penny: *winces* Threw it out the window.

Blakely: WHAT?

Penny: I know, I know. I panicked. When he left, I retrieved the shoe, but it needs a solid cleaning, and I’m not sure how to get puke out of a shoe.

Blakely: Is that why you’re not at work right now?

Penny: Correct. Puke shoe is in the bathroom sink, and I’m pacing, trying to figure out how to fix this.

Blakely: Do you have any of that OxiClean stuff? I heard it works well.

Penny: Will it bleach the shoe?

Blakely: I don’t think there’s bleach in it . . . is there? Uh, I don’t know.

Penny: Not helpful . . . wait, oh God! He’s home. HE’S HOME!

Blakely: Plot twist!

Penny: You’re not helpful.

Blakely: FaceTime me, I want to see his reaction.

Penny: You are dead to me.

“Penny, are you here?” Eli’s voice calls through the apartment. The rumble of his voice is normally soothing, but right now, at this moment, all it does is send a frightful chill up my spine.

What the hell is he doing here?

Shouldn’t he be at the arena doing hockey things? Getting ready for the game? Pumping some iron—I’ve never said that in my entire life—or perhaps taping up a stick? Why is he here? In this apartment, in the middle of my puke shoe crisis!

Does he have a radar that tells him when I’m in an embarrassing, compromised situation, prompting him to report to my side immediately?

“Penny?”

Panic consumes me as his voice grows louder. Oh God, he’s not going to go away. He can’t see me like this, all frazzled, and he sure as hell can’t see his shoe!

“Penny?” AHHHH! His voice is growing closer by the second. Think . . . think.

Paused in the middle of the bedroom, I look to the left, look to the right, think about burying myself under the bed . . . wait, that could work, but the shoe is in the bathroom . . .

And his footsteps are growing closer.

Me or the shoe.

Me . . . or the shoe.

I don’t have time to react. I don’t even have a moment to stick half my leg under the bed to hide before the bedroom door parts open.

He’s here.

Fear creeps up the back of my neck.

My stomach churns in a nasty shade of green, revisiting the nausea from this morning, but this is different. This is the being caught red-handed kind of nausea.

He’s going to see the shoe.

He’s going to see my panic.

He’ll smell the puke . . .

I can’t avoid the inevitable, but I can come up with one hell of a story.

That’s right. I can lie through my teeth.

*Cracks knuckles* Let’s get down to business. Come up with the most elaborate story of your entire life.

The door fully opens, and when Eli comes into view, immediate relief floods through his eyes right before confusion hits them. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You weren’t at the arena. I went to your office to see if you needed anything, and one of the girls up there said you didn’t come in this morning. I wanted to check to make sure you were okay.”

Ugh, duh, of course he’d check on me the one day I didn’t go into work. Since we have to work nights and weekends, we have a pretty flexible schedule, so no one really bats an eyelash when someone doesn’t show up in the morning. But Mr. Nosy Nelly over here was worried.

Trying to act as casual as possible, I say, “Oh, yeah. Fine. You know, flexible hours and everything.” I smile, but it turns out to be more of a flat smile rather than one that reaches my eyes. Anyone would be able to discern this attempt of feigned casual behavior. Eli being no exception.

“Then why are you wearing your dress inside out, and your hair is half curled?”

Inside out? Really?

I glance down at my dress . . . and would you look at that. It is inside out. God, would I have gone out in public like this? I want to say I would have realized, but then again, I used my lotion as toothpaste the other day, so I can’t be sure.

But no need to show him that I’m on the verge of completely losing my marbles, so I say, “The pressure of dressing oneself can be very overwhelming. Mistakes are bound to happen.” I move toward him and attempt to direct him away from the bathroom. “Now if that is all, we should probably move you along, you know, so you can get back to your busy schedule.”

Despite not having his lucky shoes, he’s wearing a forest-green suit with a black button-up, the top two buttons undone—because that’s what he does. He likes to flash his man pecs to the world and when I say flash, I mean barely give us a glimpse. It’s maddening. Either show it all or don’t show anything at all. Instead of his beloved shoes, he’s sporting a green, velvet loafer with gold embellishment that not every man would be able to pull off. But Eli, well, with those ankles, he can pretty much wear any shoe.

His style is absolutely impeccable. I’m not sure when it happened, how he became to be so stylish with such raw, sexual magnetism while wearing a freaking suit, but it happened and he’s perfected his work to the point that he makes grown women—and even grandmas—weep when he walks by. And here I am, hair half curled and my dress inside out, with a faint glistening of sweat still on the back of my neck from my morning nausea. Not to mention, I have a heinous zit on my chin that has claimed squatter’s rights for the undesirable future. I think my nose has grown, can’t be sure, but it doesn’t look right, and I plucked a black hair from my cheek today. A black freaking hair! I can safely say I feel like a grisly ogre with one tooth hanging out of its mouth, especially next to this handsome, smooth, suave man.

God . . . it makes me want to just kick him in the nose.

“Why are you being weird?” he asks as I push at his back, trying to shove him out of the bedroom, but he remains unmoving.

Attractive and strong . . . so very strong.

“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird,” I respond like the mature adult that I am.

“I’m not being weird.” He turns to face me. “You’re acting like you’re hiding something.” And then as if the answer crosses his mind, his eyes go wide, and he says, “Oh shit, do you . . . do you uh, have someone here?”

He can’t possibly be serious. What would I even do with a man right now? Introduce him to my witch zit? Tell him I’ve never in my life had an actual third eye on my face before. Ask him to braid my cheek hair? Or would I show him how bloated my stomach is, give him a little shimmy of my protruding stomach from what I can only assume is gas, since it’s too early to be showing baby just yet. Maybe introduce him to the farts. Or better yet, give him a detailed tour of exactly where I threw up this morning and maybe a reenactment.

“You have absolutely lost your mind if you think I’d even consider having a man here,” I say. “I am in no state of mind or body to welcome any gentleman lovers into this.” I motion to my body up and down. “Do you understand the kind of nausea I sit through every morning? Or the throat-burning indigestion I suffer through at night? Or how about the constant tingling of my nipples that is in no way sensual and every bit annoying? This sex shop is closed. So you can get that right out of your mind. Plus, why would I want to date anyone in this condition? Pregnant with another man’s child doesn’t necessarily say single and ready to mingle.”

He grips the back of his neck, pulling on it tightly. “Yeah, but you know, if you wanted to—”

“Did you just hear what I said?”

“I did. I really did, but just throwing it out there.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t even want to think about men or dating or sex or anything romantic at all. I don’t even want to see a couple holding hands. That’s how repulsed I am by it all. This vessel”—I motion to my body—“is sailing some rocky seas right now. No one wants to come near it. And I sure as hell don’t want anyone clogging up any holes of mine, if you get what I’m saying.”

“Loud and clear.” He glances to the side, his eyes traveling the room, clearly wanting to abort that conversation. “Then what’s going on?”

“Nothing, okay? Just weird pregnancy things that I don’t care to talk to you about. A little bit of privacy is not going to kill you.” I push him again. “Now, excuse me while I attempt to finish my hair so I can look somewhat presentable at work.”

He pauses and looks me up and down. “I know you’re not going to believe me when I say this, but you look nice.”

I take a calming breath and close my eyes. Speaking through very clenched teeth, I say, “My dress is inside out, Eli. How on earth do I look nice?” Do not lose it on him. He’s clearly lost all ability to read the room. It’s not his fault he’s an idiot. Sometimes, you’re just made that way.

I give him another nudge, and to my delight, he starts walking out of the bedroom. Thank God for small miracles. “I mean, it would be nice if the other half of your hair is curled, but if you don’t go that route, I think you can pull it off.”

I pause. What did he just say?

“Are you really going to say something like that to an emotional wreck of a woman?”

“I guess not.”

“Do you hear the psychosis in my voice, Eli?” He nods. “Then choose your words wisely.”

His nostrils flare as he nods. “Noted, don’t mention appearance or that you have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth.”

What?

Heat enrages me, and I point at the door, shouting, “Out!”

“Yup, saw that coming.” He starts to leave just as he snaps his fingers in the air and says, “Oh shit, can’t forget my deodorant.”

And before I can grasp his arm and hold him back, he moves past me and straight into the bathroom. The word “nooooooooooooo” is on the tip of my tongue as I watch him pause at the sink.

He looks back at me and then points at his shoe. “Why is my shoe in the sink?”

For the love of God, why?

Why are you doing this to me?

Especially on a day like today when I look like Shrek’s ugly friend Elmira with the third eye.

WHY?

I’ll tell you freaking why because my luck, when it comes to dignity during this season of my life, has absolutely run out. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had any dignity since Eli fertilized me. Nope, it was stripped away from me. Apparently, it is not only my responsibility to carry this child but to suffer wild embarrassment the entire time as well.

Fine.

I accept it.

What’s next, universe? Do I pee my pants in front of the man?

Oh God, I take that back. I didn’t put that out there. Please, please don’t let that happen. I’d never survive. Farting, sure. Puke in the shoe, okay. But peeing my pants . . . No, there’s no coming back from that.

I’m blasted right back to the present when I hear, “Fuck, what’s that smell?”

My vomit.

That is my wet vomit you’re smelling, you beautiful nimrod!

“What smell?” I ask, playing nonchalant. Be cool, Penny, be cool. This is your moment to shine. Story time. *Mentally rubs hands together* We are taking back our dignity! “If you’re smelling anything, then you’re probably smelling the beginning of athlete’s foot. You don’t wear socks with loafers, so mold and creep are bound to accrue. Maybe consider a different shoe, something less showy and instead, more practical.”

Oooo, good one! Not only did you deter, but you insulted the ridiculously gorgeous grossed-out man in front of you.

I move away from the bathroom, happy with my response and hoping he follows, but when he doesn’t, I know there’s a slight possibility that my story is not settling well in his head.

“That is not athlete’s foot.” I glance over my shoulder just in time for him to look closer. His eyes shoot to mine, and he asks, “Is that vomit in my shoe?”

What is he, Inspector Gadget? Jesus.

Seems as though there are brains with the beauty.

“You know, I think I’m just going to throw my hair up in a bun and get to work. If you will excuse me—”

“Penny, why is there vomit in my shoe?”

Hands on my hips and back turned toward him, I say, “I don’t know, Eli. Maybe you should check within yourself to see why there’s vomit in your shoe.”

I start to walk away, but the nimble beast scoots in front of me, halting me from my retreat. He places his large hands on my shoulders and bends in the knee so we’re eye to eye. With serious but also compassionate eyes, he asks, “Penny . . . did you throw up in my shoe this morning, then hide my shoes so I wouldn’t notice?”

“Ha.” I guffaw so loudly, I startle the both of us. “What a far-fetched, entirely factitious thought.”

“Penny . . .” He pins me with a glare.

What’s the use?

Honestly, I’ve been caught red-handed, so just deal with the consequences.

I throw my hands up in the air and surrender, my white flag waving in chagrin.

“Fine. Yes, I threw up in your shoe, and you should be happy it wasn’t one of your suit bags. Because that was a close second. And before you get all mad because that’s your lucky shoe, I would highly recommend taking a step back to realize that I am carrying child, and anything I do for the duration of this pregnancy can’t be held against me.” I fold my arms over my chest and raise my chin high. There, he has been told.

I prep myself for him to be mad. For him to moan and groan about his favorite shoes being tarnished with my technicolor—winces—upchuck. My mind forms comebacks, resting them on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired off in defense. Like a stockade, ready to banish any emotion on his end, I mentally get in my stance, tongue ready to lash. I shall take you down, dear sir, do not mess with these hormones.

His hands move closer to my neck, and I immediately sense where this is going. There’s no doubt in my foggy, dense-filled brain what’s about to happen. That’s right, folks. He’s about to put me in a good old-fashioned chokehold for tarnishing his shoes. Gasp, I know. But I can feel it. Sense it. He’s mad about his shoe. He’s about to choke me. I can see it in his feral eyes. Too bad for his manhood, I’m two steps ahead of him. He’s going to wring my neck, but not before I get a good swift kick to the crotch ready.

Unprotected strike zone, that’s your problem, man.

And before I can stop myself, I whip my leg back and then toss it forward, right into his junk. “Don’t you dare try to choke me over a shoe,” I yell out as a war cry.

A loud gurgling sound echoes against the walls, followed by a slow descent to the ground. His knees hit first, and then his body as he cripples over on his side.

Huzzah!

Thou shall not battle the holy one in gestation.

She might be nauseous, and she very well might have enough indigestion to burn down a thousand buildings at night, but she is mighty, and she knows how to pack a solid blow to the very nutsac that put her in this position.

“Holy . . . fuck,” he groans, cupping his sensitive niblets. “Why?”

“Why?” I blink down at him. “Uh, I wasn’t about to allow you to choke me over a shoe.”

“Choke . . . you?” he asks, still groaning. “Fuck, Penny. I was going to ask if you were okay. Why would I choke you?”

Um . . . what was that?

*Blinks*

He was going to ask if I was okay?

Hmm . . . where did I go wrong?

“Fucking Christ,” he groans some more, now covering his eyes with his arm.

Well, now I feel kind of bad.

With my toe, I nudge his shoulder. “You okay, sailor?”

“Does it look like I’m okay?” he shoots back, rage and pain lacing his every word.

“Not really, but I wasn’t sure if you were dusting off your acting chops.”

Red in the face, neck muscles bulging, he looks up at me and says, “I’m not fucking acting.”

I nod continuously as my hands twist together. “Okay, noted. Not acting. Got it. Well, then. I guess this was all just a silly misunderstanding.” I attempt a laugh, but it comes out strangled.

He takes a few deep breaths and then slowly sits up, but still clutching his crotch. “Fuck,” he mutters before one more deep breath. After a few seconds, he looks up at me. “Why would I want to choke you?”

“Uh . . .” I toe the ground. “Angry about the shoe?”

“You think I’m going to choke a pregnant woman over a shoe?”

“I don’t know!” I toss my arms up in the air. “Who knows the kind of anger levels you might have. I’m still getting to know you, and honestly, from what I’ve seen on the ice, you have a temper. How do I know it doesn’t carry into the household? These are things we need to learn about each other, Eli.”

He pinches his brow, clearly still suffering in pain. “Penny, for your future reference, please know, I’ll never . . . ever try to choke you or physically harm you in any way. Got it?”

I tap the side of my head. “Yes. Logging that nugget in. Good to know.”

“Jesus.” He takes the next minute to stand to his feet, moving entirely too slow if you ask me. Does it really hurt that bad? Or are men just weak? After another deep breath, he looks me in the eyes, and the anger has disappeared as he says, “Penny, you threw up in my shoe. Are you okay?”

“It’s just a shoe, Eli. It’s not like I threw up on your dog . . . wait . . .” I tilt my head to the side and say, “Did you ask if I was okay?”

“Yes.” He lessens the space between us despite the evident pain he’s still in. “You threw up, and you haven’t done that yet. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

He’s not concerned about his shoe?

He doesn’t think I just tainted his bad luck?

He doesn’t want to choke me?

He actually cares about me more than his shoe?

That’s . . . well . . . that’s just the nicest thing.

Tears well up in my eyes and cascade down my cheeks in seconds. “I’m more important than your shoe,” I say.

“Hell, of course you are, Penny.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “Why would I think my shoe is more important than you?”

“It’s your special shoe that you like to wear when we play the Freeze, and I took that away from you. And not only did I take it away but I also did inconceivable things inside said shoe.”

“It’s just a shoe.” He reaches up and swipes away my tears with his thumbs. “I’m more concerned with how you’re feeling.”

Of course he is, because not only is he beyond gorgeous, but he’s considerate as well.

Great. Just freaking great!

More tears.

I can’t stop them. I can’t control them. I can’t even tell myself that everything is okay. It’s as if I have lost any authority over my body.

“I’m embarrassed,” I reply. “I wish I wasn’t crying right now and that this was all some sort of nightmare I haven’t woken up from yet.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” he says while pulling me into a hug. He wraps his strong, comforting arms around my shoulders, but I stand there ramrod straight, not sure if I should touch him or not. He smells so good, like yummy man. Not the best description, but that’s all I have. Yummy man. And I know if I wrap my arms around him, I might not let go, as this has all been so scary, so different, so challenging. The comfort of his arms very well might make me melt. “And I believe the crying is bound to happen when you’re pregnant. At least from what I’ve read.”

That makes me shoot off him, putting at least two feet of distance between us.

I swipe at my cheeks as panic sears through me. “What have you read?”

My panic mirrors his as we both stare at each other. “Uh . . . just an article.”

“What kind of article?” I ask him.

“You know.” He swallows. “The kind that is sent to me every week to tell me what you will be experiencing and how I can help you. And before you get mad, I know you told me not to read anything, but I can’t just sit back and not know what you’re going through. This is helpful to me.”

“So do you just look at me and say, oh, that’s her being emotional because her hormones are out of whack?”

“Yeah, kind of, but it’s better than me thinking, wow, she’s a complete psycho.”

“Do I look like a psycho?” I ask, pointing at my chest, and I can see him searching for the right words to answer.

“You look like you’re scared and are unsure of everything that’s happening to you right now, so I think it’s good that I educate myself so I can help you along the way.”

Well . . . would you look at that. He knows just what to say . . . that’s . . . that’s really nice.

And once again, my eyes well, and I break down in tears.

“I’m such a mess,” I say as he pulls me into a hug. This time, I wrap my arms around him and rest my cheek on his black shirt, very much aware that he’ll probably have to change it before he leaves. “I’m sorry.”

His hand falls to the back of my head. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

“I’m losing it.”

“You’re going through a lot, and that’s okay. That’s why I’m here, to help you through it.”

I glance up at him. “So this is the Hornsby Winnie was talking about.”

His brow pinches together with humor. “What does that mean?”

“She said when she first got to the cabin last year, you were the nicest one at first and were the reason she felt she could stay for the night. This is the guy.”

“What guy have I been to you?”

“Flirty at first, followed by alpha in the sheets—that’s how we ended up having sex. Then awkward. Uncomfortable. Nervous. And now I’m seeing the kind.”

“Only took me a bit.” He chuckles. “But this is who you’ll get from now on.” He gives me a good squeeze. “Promise.”

Then I guess I’m a very lucky girl.