My heart pounds as I push through the swinging glass doors that front Wilder Adventures headquarters.
Today’s the day I present my plan for the trailers. It’s also the day I meet the baby’s extended family—a big chunk of the Wilder crew.
And, except for Clark and Kane, they don’t even know the newest Wilder is on board.
What could go wrong?
The Wilder headquarters is in a large barn. According to Clark, this land used to be a ranch, which makes sense. The barn apparently dates all the way back to those days. It’s painted red, with a steep roof and just a few windows, but inside, it looks like an industrial-style open-plan office building—except with a loft over part of the big open main area.
People mill around a huge conference table in the center of the room, eating and chatting. I catch the scent of something that smells like lasagna. Yum. I’m early for my own presentation, because Clark said if I was, there’d be free lunch. I never turn down free lunch. And that’s true times a thousand more since I’ve been pregnant.
I can’t help it; my eyes search the room for Kane. He stands slightly to the side, taking photos on his phone. I wonder if his co-workers and family appreciate all the moments he captures for them.
Spinning through the Wilder social media yesterday, I could spot his photos right off; they’re different from everyone else’s. I recognized the way he frames people’s faces, their expressions, and even their body language. In every photo, it’s obvious how much he cares, how much he loves his friends and family, and how clearly he sees them.
As I approach the group of people, conversation stops, and eyes swing my way. Kane’s big hands lower his phone, and I catch his glance long enough for a tingle to move through my blood. My heartbeat kicks up like it always does when his attention is on me. I think about what he said yesterday, how at the bar I looked self-contained. Like I was complete already.
That was how I’d felt in that moment. Alone but not lonely. Ready for something to happen, but not needing it to.
And then he’d walked over and blown my life wide open. Destroyed my self-containment, for better or for worse.
“Hey, everyone,” Clark says, appearing at my shoulder. “This is our new RV designer, Mari Barrymore.”
“Hi, Mari,” says a tall man with a perfect dusting of stubble on his strong jaw. He’s dark-haired, dark-eyed, and built like Clark, minus just a little of the over-the-top Viking physique. “I’m Gabe.”
I shake Gabe’s hand—he has a strong-but-not-bone-crushing-grip, which I appreciate. “Hi, Gabe.”
“Gabe’s the boss,” Clark says.
Gabe’s gaze drops to my belly, then rises. My heart rate kicks up again. I’m counting on the Wilders knowing that great Dave Barry advice: Don’t ever ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you see the baby coming out of her.
Gabe has apparently heard that warning, because all he says is, “Welcome to Rush Creek. We’re excited to hear the plan. In the meantime, grab some grub and meet the Wilders.” He gestures to the small crowd of people and the table full of food—lasagna, salad, garlic bread.
Three women intercept me as I approach the table.
“I’m Lucy!” the first says. “Head of marketing and Gabe’s wife. And the little one in the sling is Willow.”
I’m not sure how Lucy’s managed it, given the baby on her chest, but everything about her is perfect: hair, makeup, clothes. And yet she’s not a classic queen bee-mean girl type, because she’s smiling at me in an unmistakably friendly way and holding out a hand to shake.
“Lucy does most of Wilder’s marketing and is the brains behind the rebranding. She’ll be keeping tabs on our design decisions,” Clark says, from behind me.
“In the nicest possible way.” Lucy smiles warmly. Her gaze falls to my belly and climbs back to my face. She’s curious, too, but she doesn’t comment. Too well-mannered.
I start to think Dave Barry has my back, but then the second woman, who’s sporting an awesome raven-haired pixie cut, points at my belly and says, “Are you pregnant?”
“Hanna,” the third woman admonishes. Not unkindly. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Come on,” Hanna says. “We were all thinking it.”
I can’t help smiling. She’s right; they probably all were.
“I wasn’t,” says another Wilder brother. This one is absurdly handsome, with a luminous smile. “Easton.” He holds out his hand to shake. “You don’t have to answer Hanna’s question. She doesn’t think she has to follow the rules of basic human politeness.”
“But it would be rude not to answer me.” Hanna aims a fierce laser gaze at Easton.
“The question was rude, so not answering it is a reasonable response,” Easton says. “Ignore her,” he tells me, all eye crinkles and white teeth and pretty boy smolder.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Yeah, I’m pregnant.”
“How far along are you?”
The question comes from the third woman. Kane’s sister, Amanda, the one in the photo on Kane’s wall. Her eyes are almost exactly like Kane’s—deep set and long-lashed.
“Thirty-two weeks—seven months and a bit.” I hold my breath, waiting for someone to sound the alarm, but everyone is nodding and smiling in the general direction of my belly.
“I wish I’d looked half as good as you at seven months!” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Amanda.”
“Amanda’s the one who made this amazing meal,” Clark says.
“It smells incredible,” I say.
“Thank you!” Amanda says, beaming.
“The rest of us are on their way; we’ll introduce you when they get here. Dig in!” Clark says. “Before the food gets cold.”
“You forgot Kane,” Amanda points out.
I don’t look at Kane. Or Clark.
I say, “Oh. We’ve met, out at the trailers, the first day I was here. And he was kind enough to offer to let me park my Airstream on his property.” I’m pleased with how normal I sound.
“It’s way closer to town than where the trailers are parked, and way quieter than parking it here,” Kane puts in.
I definitely think the gentleman is protesting too much, but no one seems to notice. In fact, no one seems to have made any connection whatsoever between the state of my belly and the fact that Kane and I aren’t strangers.
I think we’ve gotten away with all of it.
Until I catch the expression on Amanda’s face. One perfectly plucked eyebrow is raised as high as it’s possible for an eyebrow to go.