“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.
“Could not be better. People are acquiring a taste for fresh, real food,” she says, earning a... frown?
Her eyes cut to me. “Why does that bother him?”
I shrug.
Shaking his head quickly, as if shooing away a gnat, Andrew smiles. “It doesn't. It’s just a hot topic lately.”
“Good food is controversial? Since when?”
“Do you think there's really been a turn in the market for high quality, pure food?”
“I do. And it's about time. Americans tolerate so much, what is the word?” She struggles to find it, finally exclaiming with a finger snap, “Crap! Yes, that is the word. Crap.”
“That's true,” I agree.
Andrew leans toward me and whispers, “Cheetos and marshmallows qualify as crap.”
“Then hand over the crap and save the real food for yourself. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.”
Pan con Tomate, crusty bread rubbed with garlic and oil and topped with tomatoes, appears as if an angel delivered it. Sparkling water in a wine glass, with lemon and lime floating in it, is the perfect accompaniment. Lefty and Righty start chanting “Eat! Eat! Eat!” and the vibrations of their little voices travel up from my womb into my mouth. My tongue and teeth operate before I've even grabbed a napkin for my lap.
Connie is deeply gratified.
“Good food, Andrew. Real food. Quality food cooked with love. That's the secret ingredient, the caring. We feel seen when we are fed well.” She pats my shoulder. “Is this not true?”
“Mmmph?”
They both laugh as I take a sip of water and swallow.
“Connie,” I say, “See me. See me as clearly as possible. I especially want to be seen through your dessert eyes.”
A half hug from above follows, her spicy perfume subtle but distinct. “I knew Andrew chose well with you. Knew from the moment he brought you here, that first time. Shall I choose your menu, taking great care with the sweets?” She looks to Andrew.
“You are the expert. I defer to you.”
Her eyes widen. “When does that ever happen? A McCormick renouncing control over something? My goodness!”
I have to swallow quickly before I choke on my own laughter.
Andrew cocks one eyebrow but says nothing.
A call from the kitchen, barely audible, makes her turn and wave to us as a tray of breads and oils appears, and I find myself facing a speechless husband.
“We're not that bad,” he mutters as he reaches for a piece of bread.
I laugh. “Andrew, you carried me up here because I made a joke. You insist you're 'winning' the baby-making contest with your brother because I'm carrying twins. You and Declan tried to outdo each other showering Shannon and me with gifts in Las Vegas, including a seven-foot animatronic–”
He pops a piece of tomato bread in my mouth to shut me up.
“Let's talk about something else. Oh, I know!” he says in a bright voice that instantly sets me on edge. “How about baby names?”
“Mmmmp pfttt iss eyem.”
“Perfect! Your mouth is full and you can't talk. I'll suggest something other than Lefty and Righty. How about Paul and Dominick?”
I shake my head.
“Richard and Oliver?”
I shake harder.
“Erik and Roger?”
I make a face.
“Well, Leo and James are out.”
I finally swallow and reply, “Your father and my mother would kill us if we name one of them Leo. But you're right.”
Smug looks always find their way to
