Mine

SIX FLYING TO BOSTON

On our way to Boston, I have the opportunity to get better acquainted with the jet’s toilet. Half the flight I spend puking in it.

When I come out after my first round, Remington’s scowl greets me, while Diane ushers me to her seat up at the front where she has a plate of melon, papaya, nuts, and cottage cheese waiting. I love papaya. It’s got fiber and loads of vitamin A, and is great for the digestive system. There’s a lemon wedge on the side, which I usually love squeezing onto the papaya too. My body has a different idea, though, and the scent of papaya . . .

About to barf in my mouth, I shove the plate aside and run to the bathroom, lift the toilet lid, and heave again. Diane immediately appears at the door, and I hear her speak to someone just outside. Of course I have a general idea of who that someone is.

“Don’t let him come in here,” I plead to her between heaves.

Remy has been speedy for over two weeks now.

He called himself the “king of the world” a couple of days ago, followed by “king of the jungle” and then “king of the punching bags” and then, that evening, he asked me to be his queen, and I laughed. But at the same time, he looked so charming and adorable with his dimples that it almost felt like he was proposing.

He’s so energetic. He’s been wearing us all down, but at least Pete—circles under his eyes and all—is happy that he hasn’t switched to depression. Manic Remington fights like a gladiator, and lately, he seems in a very good mood as long as he gets to kick the shit out of people and have a lot of sex—which I am more than happy to provide, since I’ve been about as hot and lusty for him as I always am or—strangely—maybe a little more.

As I flush the toilet and try to breathe again, Diane shoots me a smile that tells me she thinks Remy is adorable for worrying, but her smile vanishes when she takes a good look at my complexion.

I really feel like shit, so I must look like shit. Funny that no matter how old I get, when I feel this sick, I’m flashed back to my soup days and I miss my mom. She would never let us eat in bed, except when we were sick, and then we got a tray with warm soup.

“Could it be a stomach bug?” Diane feels my forehead. “No fever. Would you like some mineral water? Or Alka-Seltzer?” she asks.

“Maybe some sparkling water,” I admit, flushing in embarrassment when I think that the entire team will now know about me and my regurgitating. “Do you have any gum?”

She nods and watches me as I quickly try to rearrange my ponytail. “You should stay in this afternoon,” she suggests.

“Miss his training? Never!” I gasp.

“You look so pale, Brooke.”

I pinch both my cheeks and add a bright smile. “There.”

Chiding me with a shake of her head, she leaves and then returns with a packet of gum, and a small hotel travel bag containing a plastic toothbrush and tube of Colgate. “I collect these from everywhere we go. Shampoos too,” she tells me proudly.

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver, Diane.”

As I brush my teeth at the small faucet, I start to seriously wonder what’s wrong with me, and when I come out, he’s on the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees, his black eyes fixed on the plane restroom door.

Added to his, three other pairs of worried stares follow me as I make a straight line for my seat. I feel so weak and dehydrated, I fall into the cushions and sit right on top of my travel bag. Remington pulls it out from under me and sends it flying to the end of the bench, then he firmly cups the back of my head and tips my head up to his. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been myself since the stings.”

I sense, more than see, Diane’s presence nearby, and she seems to be studying us, though that’s neither here nor there; I just want to be coddled. I want to crawl into Remington’s lap and stay there, with my arms around his neck, and my nose in his throat, sniffing the hell out of him, but I’m too tired to move from my seat, so I just tuck my face into one of his hands and close my eyes for a moment and smell his soap.

“Brooke, are you certain it began with the stings?”

Both he and I turn to Diane at the same time, and she wears this devious smile I have never seen before. Her merry brown eyes fix on Remington, rather than me, and when she speaks again, her voice trembles with something that sounds like excitement. “Have you asked Brooke whether you’re going to be a dad?”

Excuse me? I think I just choked on, and then swallowed, a bowling ball. By the time I feel a certain pair of familiar black eyes staring at me, my lungs feel like they’re expanded to the limit.

He waits until I slide my gaze over to his, his voice hardly audible through the plane’s engines. “Am I?”

Holy shit . . . am I?

Pregnant?

The mere word makes the bowling ball in my stomach double in weight. Is he worried that I am? I stare into his face and . . . nothing. Pure handsomeness, and that’s all. I can’t read him with those dark eyes.

“No,” I stress. All my inner walls shoot up in defense mode as the utter fear of what something like this would do to us takes hold. “I have birth control. I’ve had it for years. It’s been making my period fade so I don’t really know when it’s my time anymore. . . .” I pause when Diane wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I’m not,” I assure her grinning face, glowering now.

She brings over a bottle of sparkling water, and Remington takes it from her outstretched hand.

“I can’t be. I couldn’t be,” I say, addressing only him now.

“I want someone to look at you.” He opens the bottle for me, then passes it over as he turns his head to the front of the plane. “Pete, I want someone to look at Brooke right fucking now!”

“Right on, sir,” Pete answers. “I’ll make some calls as soon as we land.”

“Make it a female, with a perfect record and experience, not some newbie!” he adds.

“I don’t want anybody to look at me,” I protest.

He seems to be getting extra speedy, so I drive my hands through his silky black hair to appease him. He exhales noisily through his nose, and when I sense him start to calm, I bury my nose in his throat. Not sure why, but this is the only place where I don’t feel sick or nauseous, with my lungs filled with pure Remy.

“You’re getting looked at,” he says gruffly into my hair, then he snakes his arms around me and pulls me onto his lap. I almost moan in gratitude, I feel so ridiculously safe in his arms.

He lowers his head to smell my neck as if to calm himself with my scent as well, then his roaming lips trail to my ear, where he speaks softly and gently to me, gaining momentum with each word, “If those scorpions caused any permanent damage, I swear I’m going to kill that motherfucker and nail his head to a goddamned pike!”

“Why don’t I at least run out to get her a pregnancy test?” Diane asks.

Remington assesses her with shuttered black eyes. And I can’t help but notice, with a little bit of panic, that they’re not glinting at all, and they’re certainly not laughing.

“I’m not pregnant. I can’t be,” I insist. My arm thingy birth control can’t fail me! Could it?!

Extra slowly, he rakes his gaze over my body, running it from the top of my head to my ponytail, the swell of my breasts under my comfortable sky-blue tank top, my tight pink jeans, and slowly back up, his expression unreadable.

“What? Do you think I am?” I ask in disbelief, and before he can answer, I add, “Remy, a baby would be very scary right now.”

He scoffs. “Who’s scared of a baby?”

“I am. You adorable man. Me.”

He chucks my chin and smirks. “Maybe I’ll take it if it looks like you.”

“You won’t take shit because there’s nothing to take!” He observes me for a couple of heartbeats, and I vow he looks kind of . . .

“You look smug, don’t you,” I accuse, hardly believing what I’m seeing.

He lifts one sleek black eyebrow.

“You do. You look smug thinking you got me pregnant when my birth control says it’s near impossible.”

He laughs in that deep, throaty way of his that makes my skin come alive and all the little hairs on my arms rise, then he kisses my lips in that boyfriend way of his where the kiss isn’t meant to arouse us—but just to express some sort of connection—then he surveys me with those adorable black eyes that are now shining very, very much in entertainment.

“I’d rather you have a baby of mine in you than be sick with his poison,” he half whispers, half growls.

“Neither is the case,” I assure. And yet, why am I holding a two-week puke-fest?

Shit.

Fuck.

Shitfuck!

He flattens me lightly to the hardness of his chest and rubs my back, quickly, up and down, then tells me quietly, his soft words packed with warning, “I’m going to tuck you in bed when we get to the hotel, and you’re not moving from it. I don’t care what’s wrong. You’re not moving from that bed until somebody looks at you and tells me you’re going to be all right.”

“Ha! There’s no way I’m staying in bed all day, not even if I feel bad. I’ve never missed a day of work in my life.”

He kisses my ear again in that boyfriend way I’m starting to like so much. “Then you haven’t lived properly.”

SO I’M NOT only missing work and living on the edge now, but I just peed on a stick.

Pete got us an appointment with an experienced male gynecologist for tomorrow, and Remington is growing impatient; he even forgave Pete the male-doctor part, but he won’t wait that long to know. Of course, Mr. Speedy wouldn’t wait. I’ve told him a thousand times I am not pregnant, and the more I say I am not, the more smug he looks. Now, he seems more excited about me peeing on a stick than I am.

When I come out of the bathroom wearing his black T-shirt, I find him shadowboxing in the room.

I watch from the threshold, admiring his swings. He knows exactly where his fist goes, and even when he gives the impression of relaxation, I know the power behind each swing is equal to a bulldozer.

Leaning on the doorframe, the athlete in me can’t help but admire the athlete in him. I’ve known thousands of sportsmen in my life. But I have never, ever met anyone like him. His speed. Agility. How he ducks. Swings. The way he fights seems to be instinctive, and yet at the same time, I can also see in both his training regimen and fights that his head is always in the game.

I think about my parents for a moment. They know I’m on tour working, though they have no idea how deeply I’ve involved myself with the man who hired me. The day I left Seattle, my main concern was whether or not Remington would take me back. I didn’t even consider telling my parents that I was in love. That I met the guy—the one I never thought I’d find. The one that made me fall harder than I ever thought I could fall. I know that they trust me to be levelheaded. Throughout the years, I’ve proven to be the most responsible of their offspring, but if this test is positive . . . Ohmigod, if it’s positive, it will scream “reckless!” all over the place.

My god, what if I am pregnant? And a little baby Tate comes into my life like Remington did, taking it over, telling me, “You know what? You might not know you need me, want me, and will damn well love me, but here I am.”

“You check yet?”

His voice jerks me back to awareness. My stomach tangles from the nerves as I stare at him. He’s been running his fingers through his hair, and every time he does that, he seems to dishevel it even more. His eyes are dark, but the light coming in from the sunset illuminates the tiny blue flecks in his dark eyes. He looks warm and sporty in his sweatpants and hoodie—boyish—and the thought of carrying his baby makes me feel hot and restless and very, very unprepared.

“Brooke?” he softly insists.

My stomach turns once more. A part of me is curious, and another part doesn’t want to know and all it wants is to keep the status quo. Just us. Remy and Brooke.

“Did you or did you not pee on a stick, baby?” he prods when I continue to hesitate.

“I did! I told you I did!” I groan as I go get the test, then I bring it back to the nightstand and read the instructions a third time. Then I gather my courage and put on my imaginary big-girl pants as I peel off the cover and peer into the screen.

The butterflies go off inside me.

My parents flash before my mind. Mom and Dad. Another generation. Maybe Nora told them that I’m seeing the man I work for, but if they don’t even know I’m with him, a baby on the way will leave them in need of therapy for a month. I shake off the thought, because honestly, what’s important now is what he thinks. He. Remington Tate. Your one and only Riptide. Possibly, my baby-daddy soon?

Shit.

This can’t be happening.

But it is.

I turn around to see him, and a whole truckful of love slams into my heart.

He’s jumping in the room, swinging his fists in the air, up and down. He hooks, jabs, frowns, and slams into his imaginary boxing partner—who seems to be a fast one, by the way Remington is jabbing and hitting back.

He is mesmerizing.

Ripped, raw, and so real. He is all mine—or at least, that’s all I want in the world. For him to be mine.

Calmly, as if sensing me, he stops swinging and lifts one of his sleek black brows that always seem permanently slanted. “What’s it say?”

“It says . . .” I stare at the small screen, and no, I’m not seeing double. I mean, I am, but it’s not a hallucination.

I think rocks have replaced my lungs, for I can’t breathe as I set the test down at the foot of the bed and walk over to him. Step by step, I stare into those black-gray eyes with the blue flecks that watch me approach in growing curiosity. Lifting my hands, I hold his scruffy jaw and really look up at him as he looks down at me, except I’m perfectly sober, and he’s perfectly amused.

“Remington, don’t forget this,” I anxiously whisper, my chest swelling with need of his support. “You’re black right now, and I don’t want you to forget what I’m going to tell you. I need all of you here with me.”

“Hey.” His dimple vanishes as he frames my face in his huge, callused hands. “I got you.”

“God, please do.”

“Yeah, I do. I got you. Now what’s wrong here? Hmm? If you aren’t, then we figure out what’s wrong with you. If you are . . .”

Jerking away before he can finish, I run over, grab the test, and bring it to him, my heart picking up a wild rhythm. I want his strength. I want his confidence. Even when he’s volatile, he is always so. Damned. Strong! I need that now.

Never taking his eyes off me, he takes the little stick I extend out.

But god, he might not be smiling for long.

My voice is calm and surprisingly steady. “Two lines means, supposedly, that I am.”

His eyes stay locked on mine for a moment longer, and then his lashes sweep downward as he turns the test screen slightly into the sunlight.

My own anxiety eats me on the inside as I wait for a reaction. We were joking on the plane, but he’s serious now. As serious as I am. His profile is completely unreadable as I take in the perfect form of his nose, how elegant it is. His mouth, relaxed and full, so freaking beautiful. His eyebrows, drawing slightly together in puzzlement as he deciphers the lines. Impossible for me to make out any emotion whatsoever.

When he sets the stick aside, my breath stops in my lungs, and when he lifts his dark head, nothing else exists in the world but this moment. He raises his eyes to mine, and my stomach wrings as hard as my heart does in my chest.

What if he doesn’t want me like this?

What if this is too much for us?

What if we’re strong enough to love each other, but not strong enough to love someone else—together?

What if we are not ready?

Our eyes meet. He studies my reaction while I study his even more desperately. And out of the thousand things I could have imagined to see in his face, I never imagined I would see what I see. He’s . . . pleased. No. He’s more than pleased. His eyes glow as if he were sexually hungry, but what he’s hungry for is something else. Then his dimples flash, and he laughs, and his perfect happiness explodes like a rainbow in me.

“Come here.” He picks me up and lifts me so that my abdomen is on his face, and he smacks a noisy kiss on me. I squeal when he flings me down on the bed and hovers over me.

The sight of those two dimples on his scruffy jaw delights me so much, I start laughing. “You’re a crazy man! You’re the only man I know who throws his pregnant girlfriend onto a bed!”

“I’m the only man,” he says, “as far as I know. There’s only one man in your world, and it’s me.”

“All right, but don’t tell my dad I agreed so easily . . .” I rub his shoulders, and he frames my face and settles down over me. If I thought he looked smug before, he gives a new meaning to the word now.

“Brooke Dumas pregnant with my baby,” he says slyly. His hair is standing up so much, I shove my hand in and watch my fingers play with it. A ripple of joy rushes over me. “My head is reeling. Kiss me.”

He lowers his head and tenderly mates his tongue with mine, tracing the flesh of my lips first, and then stroking my tongue with his so deliciously, all my taste buds awaken. He eases back to caress the back of one curled finger down the side of my face. “Make it look like you.”

“You’re the one who gave this to me.”

“No, you’re giving this to me.”

“All right, we’re both such giving souls.”

His laugh is so marvelous, it’s catching as he rolls to his side and gathers me in his arms and starts raining a bunch of slow kisses on me. “You’re mine now, from the top of your pretty dark head to the soles of your little feet.” He caresses my face with his callused thumb as he kisses the tops of my eyelids. “Don’t even think about leaving me again or I’ll come after you and so help me god, I’m going to tie you to where I am, and where I sleep, and where I eat. Do you hear me, Brooke Dumas?”

My already sensitive breasts bead under my bra, and I nod breathlessly. Shit, I love how possessive he is—and he’s doubly so whenever he’s black. I feel myself grow wet between my legs. “There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t know I’m yours,” I assure him, and I take his hand and set it on my heart.

He clamps his jaw, and a spark of primitive awareness flashes in his eyes as he clenches his fingers around my breast. We start kissing. We start hard, and then go softer. We both slide closer at the same time, needing the contact like oxygen. He whispers in my ear, “I’m so crazy about you,” and as he nuzzles the top of my head, I clutch him close and gasp, “I love you so much.”

Looking extremely satisfied, almost like he does when he’s given me several multiple orgasms in a row, he turns me over and adjusts me, holding my stomach as he starts nuzzling the back of my neck while my mind continues reeling, and I imagine a little Remy running the way little boys run, clumsy and stumbling, and I touch my stomach as I let my lion pet me.