Page 15 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Hi,” I say, and it comes out… normal. Miracles happen. “Welcome to Baby Llama Armageddon.”
His gaze flicks down—belly, llamas, donut sugar constellation—then back to my face. Something slow and stunned passes through his expression.
And there, in the glow of fluorescent lighting and the scent of panic frosting, Lucas Lawson sees me.
Seesus.
His coffee tilts a fraction in his hand.
“Mel,” he says again, softer.
And then he really looks.
5
Lucas
A belly. Round. Obvious.
My internal calculator wakes up with a snap. Timeline. We met end of March. Today’s first week of November. Seven-plus months since the mountain. But visually she reads…five? Maybe six? Hard to tell under the oversized cardigan. My brain does its dumb thing anyway: if five, not mine. If six… still probably not. Seven would be close, but I’m not trusting a window estimate at a distance with holiday lighting glare.
Inside the store, the air smells like talc and vanilla. A sales associate in a name tag (Brinley) smiles like I’m here for a registry and not a mild cardiac event. I clock exits, aisles, the number of obstacles I could take out if my boots catch a display. Melanie stands near the llamas, one hand on her belly, the other knotted in a tissue.
“Melanie?” I say again. It comes out softer than I plan.
Her face cycles through surprise, calculation, and something else I can’t tag fast enough. She smiles. “Want a llama. Maybe for your truck, or…” Her words fall away.
I almost laugh. It catches in my chest on something sharper. Up close, she’s exactly the same and completely different. More light behind the eyes. More tired, too. Beautiful in the way that hurts to look at when you don’t own the right to.
I run the math one more time because denial enjoys busywork. The part of me that prefers clean lines wants this solved before words. It isn’t. So my mouth goes tactical-stupid.
“The baby’s not mine, right?”
Her smile falls like a curtain drop. I hear the thud in my own bones and want the sentence back before it finishes vibrating the air. Wrong entry. Wrong tone. Zero bedside manner.
What the fuck am I doing?
“Mel—” I start, but she straightens, the professional calm sliding on like a coat.
“It’s not,” she says, quick and even. “It’s… my boyfriend’s. Freddy. Good ol’ Freddy.”
Good ol’ Freddy. The way she says it slides sideways in my ear, but the two words that matter are the first two.It’s not.They click into place like a lock engaging. Something in my chest stutters, then goes very still.
“Right,” I say. The word tastes like cardboard. “That makes sense.”
Of course it does. She didn’t answer the calls. Timing’s messy. I said I don’t do complicated. A baby is complicated on hardmode. This is what clean lines look like when you keep them—standing in a fluorescent store pretending your heartbeat isn’t audible to the sales associate stocking teething rings.
A woman who looks like her sister hovers within tackle range by a rack of onesies, eyes narrowed, shoulders ready. The calvary. I give her a nod like I see her and I’m not a threat, because I see her and I’m not.
Melanie gestures vaguely at a wall of pacifiers like it’s a skyline. “What are you doing in Saint Pierce?”
“Working a gig through the holidays,” I say, telling her the truth. “Local client. I’ll be in town until after the New Year.”
Her eyebrows jump. “Here? For Christmas?” She recovers fast. “That’s… nice.”
“Could be.” It could be a lot of things if the variables were different. I force my voice level. “You look good.”
A flush edges her cheeks. “Thanks. You look… sturdy.”
