Wyatt works, comes home, showers, and we have dinner. He’s typically asleep before I’m even remotely ready for bed, but that’s because he’s up at the ass crack of dawn.
Wyatt’s given me carte blanche in regards to any decorating I want. I’ve spent hours online and probably spent way more than I should for a three month stay, but at least I know that when the baby is born, the house is pretty.
I flop in the chair with a huff. I’m freaking tired. Like, all the time. I want to sleep and then sleep some more. Who knew that growing a kid would be so freaking exhausting? Not me. Although, I’m sure the book of crap that no one tells you has that little tidbit.
“Knock, knock,” I hear someone say from the doorway.
I stand and see Wyatt’s mama pop her head in. “Mrs. Hennington! Come in, please!” I smile, glad to have someone here to keep me from buying anything else.
“Hi there, darlin’! I wanted to come see how you were getting along here.” She smiles with the warmth of the sun. “Also, I brought you a pie.”
She’s probably one of the sweetest women in the world, and her Southern charm is infectious. I’ve met her a few times with Presley before I claimed my door prize, and it’s clear where her boys get their good hearts from. Macie Hennington has raised her kids with honor and respect.
“I’m hanging in there.”
“You’ll love it here, I just know it.”
Fat chance in hell. I still have no access to a Caramel Macchiato or the cupcakes. I also miss my store, which means I’m getting crankier by the day. Instead of actually telling her that, I decide to grin. If there’s one person I really want to like me—it’s her. She’s close to her boys, and she’s the grandma I want for my baby. The one who will bake cookies, give sewing lessons, and smother grandbabies with love. Unlike my mother, who will teach my child how to ignore people properly.
“Oh, you’ve already made this house so much better.” Mrs. Hennington looks around. “Wyatt’s room always looked like one of those dorm rooms with white walls and awful posters.” She waves her hand. “But you’ve done such a beautiful job just puttin’ a woman’s touch around here.”
“Thank you.” I grin.
“I can’t wait to see what you two do for a nursery.” Her eyes are light with excitement. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just so happy. I know it’s a little unconventional and all, but it’ll be my first grandbaby. After I chewed Wyatt’s hide over how this could happen, I couldn’t stop myself from being . . . happy. I hope you understand.”
“I’m glad you’re excited.” Someone should be out of our parents.
“I wasn’t sure you would be,” I confess.
She laughs and pats my leg. “Sugar, Wyatt’s a grown man, and I’ve warned that boy time and time again about carryin’ on with women. But of all the girls I could pick to be givin’ me my first grandbaby . . . I’m glad it’s you. You’re a smart, strong, and beautiful girl with a big heart.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Mrs. Hennington shrugs. “Just tell me you’ll be careful with his heart and take care of that baby inside you.” She glances at my belly.
“I will,” I promise.
“Good. Now, tell me about what you’ve been up to.” She takes my hand as we catch up.
I fill her in on all my very boring and uneventful days. I’ve gone by the Townsend’s each day, had lunch with Presley or Wyatt if he wasn’t busy, hung out with the boys, and then came home before him. It’s fun, but I need purpose. I can’t handle feeling like I’m useless. I’m not the stay-at-home kind of girl. I’m always busy, and if I have a lull, I find some new project to take on. Idle hands and all that.
She’s excited to hear that Erin and I are mapping out a possible new location for the bakery. I don’t tell her about how tight our timeframe is or how worried I am about being able to open while we’re still relevant. The demand is high right now, and For Cup’s Cakes is more than willing to be the supply. But I’m here and can’t help Erin much.
I need to do something. Decorating Wyatt’s bachelor pad isn’t as interesting as it sounds, even though he’s demanded that any purchase be paid for by him. I would’ve thought that spending his money would be fun . . . but it’s not.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Hennington pushes.
I debate not telling her, but the way she’s looking at me makes it clear she’s worried. “I’m bored. I work really hard back home and being here, sitting around, makes me a little stir crazy.”