My hand seeks his and finds it instantly, our fingers threading comfortably. He slides his sunglasses on and I take him in, deeply grateful for a life with a man so strong, handsome, caring, and most important–all mine.
If you had told me five years ago I'd have this someday, I'd have assumed you got into Chuckles' catnip stash and were pulling my leg.
As we walk, I adjust my stride, Andrew's long legs covering more territory per step than mine. The bigger I get, the more I waddle, but keeping up with him feels good, though he slows down to make it easier on me. My body needs to stretch and move, the blood flow important. I've never been one to work out much, but I do fine.
Pregnancy makes me feel more in my body than ever before.
Sunny days like this make me appreciate having a place on the water. The city is busier than you'd expect on a Sunday morning, easing into the afternoon. It's July, which means the tourists are pouring in, the Tea Party re-enactment boat packed with people and a long line at the ticket window. The scent of garlic and sweet sausage wafts past us as we get closer to Consuela's, then ginger and peanuts. Plenty of trendy places have moved into the area, but Connie’s food can't be smelled from the street.
She's high above it all.
You can't call Consuela's to book a table. There is no website. It's the kind of place a billionaire like Andrew knows about because he's Andrew McCormick, CEO of Anterdec, and that's that. Celebrity chefs like Consuela don't hire mystery shoppers, they don't advertise, and they certainly don't have two-for-one specials on Monday nights.
“You okay? The walk isn't too much?” he asks me as we wait at a crosswalk, his hand warm and strong in mine.
“Fine as can be.”
A lazy little honeybee bounces from blossom to blossom in a planter outside a café. Shannon is allergic to them, but that little puffball covered in pollen could sting Andrew and he'd be fine. The randomness of anaphylaxis is something I'm not educated enough to fully understand, but on an emotional level, I am an expert on anticipatory danger from creatures that weigh less than .00025 pounds.
Until you carry around forty-five extra pounds of baby (okay, fine, babies and Cheetos...), you don't realize how hard stairs can be. My mother would note that my pregnancy weight is equal to 180,000 bees.
How do I know this?
Because she actually calculated it for me. When your mom's an actuary, you learn these details.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asks as I head toward the stairwell. He's pointing at the elevator.
“Elevator” is a stretch. It's a flat door, the old-fashioned kind, with the accordion grate and everything.
I look pointedly at my belly. “We can't fit in that thing, unless you have a shoehorn.”
“Then you go without me. I'll take the stairs.”
Claustrophobia is not an issue I've ever experienced, but I get a whiff of it now.
“Nah. Let's do the stairs.”
Skeptical eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“I need the exercise.”
“No.” He jabs the elevator button.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You're not climbing the stairs.”
“I said I'm fine!”
“And I said you're not overexerting yourself as you come off bed rest.”
“There isn't room for both of us in there!”
“Then I'll walk, you ride.”
But the elevator doesn't come.
As we wait, a guy in a white kitchen uniform walks in, carrying a bag of produce. He pauses, then says, “it's broken.”
“Broken?” we answer in unison. His eyes drift to my belly and he practically chokes.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“See?” I turn on Andrew as he leaves. “I'll take the stairs.”
“We can go to a different restaurant.”
I ignore him and start up.
The rooftop part of Consuela's bistro becomes annoyingly apparent as we trudge upward. Behind me, halfway there, Andrew pauses and sighs. I turn around to look at him and he makes a face of chagrin.
“I wish you'd taken the elevator.”
“Why? Because my fat ass is hard to look at?”
A hand goes straight to said body part. “That entire sentence is an abomination.”
“So is my ass. I thought baby weight was supposed to be for the babies.”
“You've never been more gorgeous.”
“You always say that.”
He steps up to my level, both hands groping me now, making me laugh. My belly's so big, we can't squish together enough to kiss, but by God, the man can do a proper reach-around.
“Andrew?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you just going to stand here holding my butt?”
“Maybe. It's not bad as hobbies go.”
My stomach roars indignantly, hunger turning into a verb.
His growls back.
Unclenching his paws, he presses his palm to my sacrum, urging me up. “If you can't walk the rest of the way, I'll carry you.”
“Hah! As if.”
The air around us changes as I realize my grave error.
I have challenged the most competitive man in the world.
Feet out from under me in an instant, I'm in his arms, my cheek against his shirt buttons, hair caught in the crook of his arm, and let me tell you, Lefty and Righty are not happy with what their father is doing.
“Andrew!” I squeal. “The babies are rolling around like they're protesting, signs and banners and all! Put me down.”
The jerk starts running up the steps.
“Vince said I need to do more weight-bearing exercises.”
“I am not a sandbag!”
“No. You're not. Sandbags don't complain,” he says in an amused tone. I can't wiggle out of his arms or we’ll fall.
“Put me down at the next landing,” I insist. He ignores me and keeps going.
And going.
Until finally, we burst into the open air of the rooftop to find Consuela's deeply amused face staring at us.
“Renewing your wedding vows? Carrying the bride across the threshold?”
“We did... get married... here.” Andrew very carefully sets me upright again, the skirt of my maternity dress now wedged up my butt. He’s perspiring heavily, and he can barely catch his breath, but he’s trying his best to speak normally.
“Show-off,” I call out, just loud enough to turn a few heads of fellow patrons, but not enough to get scowled at. Straightening my dress, I square my shoulders. Consuela's gaze drifts to my belly.
“Oh, so sweet,” she says in her lightly accented English. “Your babies. Señor and Señora McCormick are going to be Mami and Papi soon.”
“Times two,” Andrew says proudly. My mouth starts watering when a server passes by with a plate covered in what appears to be thinly sliced smoked salmon, eggs, and artisanal toast.
“You have eyes only for Amanda, but she has eyes for sustenance,” Consuela says with a laugh, giving me a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. “Let us get this woman some Pan con Tomate!”
“How's business, Connie?” Andrew asks as he helps me sit, gently gliding the seat under me, gentlemanly manners on full display.