Page 152 of Fire Island

I shift on my seat, stretching, hoping a few deep breaths will stave off the discomfort.

It doesn’t.

I retch, slapping my hand to my mouth.

Shit.

My stomach revolts, and I scramble to my feet and make the yacht’s railing. I lose my coffee to the sea.

Footsteps thunder up the companionway. Cal crosses the deck, face tight. Those blue eyes that hold my heart are flooded with worry.

I straighten and think back.

Surely . . .

It’s only after a moment of rough calculations I realize how much time has passed since?—

“Oh my god.” I retch and lean over the rail again. A large, warm hand rubs my back.

“Coffee no good?” he asks.

I breathe through the next wave of nausea and turn back. “Cal, I don’t think it’s the coffee...”

His face tilts a little before it falls with shock. “You—you’re?”

“I think so.”

His hands cup my face a second later. I press mine to his chest. I just threw up, twice.

Pressing his forehead to my own, his jaw feathers. “We having a wee bairn, mo ghràdh?”

“We are,” I breathe.

Tears swell, pooling beneath the blue I adore. I weave my fingers through his beard and smile a wobbly smile, despite the nausea clawing at my insides.

“Well, baby, looks like we’re heading home.” He sounds so damn happy.

“No, it’s our first trip. It’s too soon.” I force myself upright.

“How long do we have?”

“A good five or six months, at a guess.”

“Well, let’s make them count, baby girl.”

Let’s make them count.