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  "Your Uncle Arturo is the baker, right?"

  "Yeah. He owns restaurants and a bakery in San Antonio." He nods as his eyes light up. "He makes the cakes for all our parties."

  I smile. I remember his uncle's cakes. He made this amazing chocolate layer cake for Tio's sixtieth birthday party. It had whipped, creamy frosting and a gooey, fudgy center.

  "I love his cakes." I rub my hands together and lick my lips. "What about that triple chocolate thing?"

  He leans forward, and there's this intense look in his gaze, like he's about to reveal something top secret. "You should try his red velvet."

  My mouth falls open, and I gape at him for a long moment. Red velvet is my most favorite cake of all time. Just the thought of it and my mouth waters.

  "You really are my soul mate," I squeal, reaching for his hands.

  He smiles and squeezes back. "We still need to set a date." Then he taps on his iPad and shows me the calendar. He's got January fourth open. January fourth!

  I gasp and pull back. "That's two weeks to find a dress and come up with a theme. Are you crazy?"

  He flashes a sideways grin. "That way you don't have time to change your mind."

  "You're funny." I laugh and roll my eyes. As if I'd want to change my mind. "Let's tell our families first, and then we'll come up with a date."

  "Who first?"

  "My mom's expecting us. We can tell her tonight and your family tomorrow."

  I should feel a sense of relief when Andrés nods in agreement. We're actually going to get married. We're planning the celebration and setting the date. But as a strange unease settles in the pit of my stomach, I feel anything but relieved. I already know Andrés's family will be overjoyed when they find out we're getting married. They've been bugging us to settle down and have kids, anyway.

  But what about my mom? Weird, because even though I met my birth mom a few weeks ago, I feel as if I've known her a lifetime. Despite the fact that she was forced to give me up for adoption when she was a teen, we've grown close over the past few weeks. I wonder what she'll say about Andrés and me getting married so quickly. She'll probably think we're only doing it because I'm pregnant, especially when she finds out Andrés wants to marry in two weeks. My mom's opinion means so much to me. I only hope she approves.

  Chapter Three

  Christina

  Andrés swears he's driving safely, that he isn't going too fast around the turns, but the two hour trip to my mom's house feels like I'm stuck on Dante's roller coaster ride into hell. It takes all my willpower not to vomit all over the leather seats in Andrés's truck. I even make him stop twice because I feel like I'm unable to hold my breakfast a minute longer. Some fresh air and a few burps later, we're back on the road, and I'm sick all over again.

  So this is what morning sickness feels like.

  It fucking sucks.

  My head is swimming by the time we pull into my mom's drive. I don't even have the strength to get out of the car. I rest my cheek on Andrés's shoulder as he carries me inside. My head is throbbing, and to make matters worse, my mom is fussing at me from behind Andrés's shoulder. He carries me to our upstairs bedroom and lays me on the bed. I curl up in a fetal ball, close my eyes and groan as a wave of nausea overpowers me. I mumble something about the annoying glare from the overhead lights, but I don't think they hear me. I groan louder and try to open just one eye, but it's like I'm stuck on a merry-go-round. I just want to the room to stop spinning. Is that too much to ask?

  Mom is sitting beside me, stroking my hair, which kind of feels nice, but the misery I'm feeling trumps everything. I lean over and start to gag as bile projects into my throat. I'm vaguely aware of Andrés holding a waste-basket beneath my chin and of my mom holding my hair before I lose my breakfast.

  And boy do I lose it, all of it: pancakes, eggs, a double order of bacon, and a stolen toast wedge plus two cups of coffee come racing back up, burning my throat and singeing my nostrils on the way out. I heave and heave until there's nothing left but bile, and then I heave some more.

  When I'm finally finished, I lay back on the pillow and lick my parched lips. Despite the burning in my nasal passages, I can still smell the rancid stench of my own breath, a mixture of rotten blueberries and curdled cream.

  I'm never eating blueberry pancakes again.

  Never.

  I don't know who lifts my head up and forces me to drink water, but the beverage is a welcome relief to the burning in the back of my throat. I take several sips before I lie back down. The world doesn't swim so much when my eyes are closed, so I think maybe I'll keep them closed for a little while. Maybe I'll even take a nap. For some reason, I'm exhausted.

  ***

  Andrés

  "Is my daughter pregnant?"

  How did I know this question was coming? I'm sitting awkwardly on the living room sofa, drinking sweet tea (but I could sure use a beer) while Christina's mom, Jenny, gives me the death stare. Not that I blame her. If Christina were my daughter, I'd probably beat the shit out of me.

  Even though the woman is petite like Christina, she appears to be much bigger when she puffs up her chest and clenches her fists, glaring at me like she wants to stick my dick in a wood chipper. I size her up while I think of my best possible answer.

  I'm usually good at sweet talking my way out of sticky situations, but there's no talking myself out of this one.

  "Yes, ma'am," I say through a shaky breath as I set my tea on the coffee table.

  If Jenny's eyes were guns, I'd be full of holes by now. She snatches my tea glass off her coffee table and slides a wooden coaster beneath it.

  My shoulders slump when I realize I'm not exactly earning any browning points with this lady. I get the feeling she's wondering how much she can get for my body on the black market if she chops me to bits and sells the parts.

  "Is that why she has that ring on her finger?"

  "No." I shake my head. "I asked her before we found out."

  At least nobody can accuse us of getting married because I knocked her up. Baby or no baby, I'm still intent on making Christina my bride.

  Jenny sets her tea glass on a coaster and taps her chin with her finger. "When are you planning on getting married?"

  "Soon, I hope. " I swallow back a bit of nervous tension when I realize I sound a bit too eager.

  Jenny arches a brow, eyeing me intently. "You walked out on her three weeks ago. How can she depend on you to stay with her now?"

  Damn. The thing is, I don't blame Jenny for not trusting me, not after I acted like a jealous pendejo when I'd walked out on Christina because she went to dinner with Tyler and Jackson. I knew Jackson was using the baby to get to Christina, and I was right, but it was still not a good enough reason to break up. Christina cares for that baby. I had no right to tell her she couldn't see him anymore.

  My mouth goes dry, and I'm tempted to grab that tea off the table and chug the whole glass, but something about the way Jenny is glaring at me makes me afraid to move a muscle. I lick my parched lips and cough to clear my throat. "I love Christina. I'm not going anywhere."

  Her brow furrows and she rolls her eyes. "Raising a baby isn't easy."

  Now I know who Christina gets her eye rolling from. If we were in a different situation, I might laugh at how identical those two look.

  "I know that." I make a sign of the cross, and then lean forward, hoping she can read the sincerity in my gaze. "But I swear I'm not walking out on my family."

  Jenny leans forward, too, which is awkward, because we're only a few breaths apart now, good face-slapping distance. She jabs a finger in my chest, twin firestorms brewing beneath her emerald gaze. "Good, because if you break her heart again, I will make your life a living hell."

  I swallow a lump in my throat and nod that I understand. I release a shaky breath when she backs up and picks up her glass. My cue to do the same. I grab my glass and quickly scoot back in my chair, putting as much distance between us as possible. Two tours in Afg
hanistan and this tiny little woman has got me ducking for cover. I down the tea in a matter of seconds, and then eye Jenny warily while I set it on the table.

  She's got every right to be angry, I keep telling myself. You walked out on her daughter and then knocked her up. You deserve this.

  Just when I prepare for another tongue lashing, she whips out her phone and taps the screen. "I guess I need to start making wedding plans. You'll probably want to do this in Austin, right?"

  I nod in agreement, maybe a little too hard. Damn. I'm not a bobble-head doll.

  "I'll need to start looking up venues and caterers and working out a date."

  I nod again. It seems to be the only thing I know to do at the moment. She's probably wondering how her beautiful, talented, smart daughter ended up with an idiot like me.

  Luckily, she seems to have tuned me out, because she's already calling a caterer in Austin and asking if they have any openings.

  Shit. That was fast. Weird, because Christina is still sleeping. Shouldn't Jenny consult with Christina first? Or how about me? And who said we were having the wedding catered? Christina and I already decided my family would make the food. I should probably say something to Jenny.

  Two tours in Afghanistan, I remind myself. Two freaking tours.

  I clear my throat and lean forward.

  Jenny waves me away before rising from her seat and walking toward the window.

  Well, fuck!

  ***

  Christina

  I wake up with a splitting headache and a throat that feels like sandpaper. I struggle to sit up against the headboard, heaving a sigh of relief when I open my eyes and the room is no longer spinning. It's at an odd tilt, though, and I get the feeling I'm in one of those crazy fun houses with floors at awkward angles. I know one side of my mom's home didn't sink into the ground while I was asleep. Oh, well. A tilted room is better than a spinning room.

  I grab a glass of water off the nightstand, swearing as I slosh about half of it all over the bed. I spill more down my neck as I miss my mouth on the first few tries.

  Damn. Losing my equilibrium sucks.

  I finally manage to down what's left in the glass. The cool water is amazingly refreshing, soothing the burn in the back of my throat.

  Vomiting blueberry pancakes sucks, too.

  My arm feels like a runaway crane as I wave the empty glass awkwardly toward the table. I swear when the glass misses and falls to the floor with a thud. Luckily, I don't hear it break.

  I close my eyes and lean back into my pillow. I groan at the pain in my head, as if a monster earthquake has cracked a chasm in my skull.

  Could this really be morning sickness? Really? I don't remember it being this bad with Karri. Then again, she'd probably been too hopped up on drugs to notice.

  A few seconds later, I hear a gentle tapping on the door.

  "Feeling better?"

  I open one eye and then the other. Mom is picking the empty glass up off the carpet. She's still in her pajamas, so I figure it must be morning. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyeliner is slightly smudged. Doesn't matter, though. She's still beautiful. Her cheeks have that youthful flush and her green eyes are big and gorgeous with or without makeup. I hope I look this good when I'm thirty-nine.

  I flash a weak smile. "The room's not spinning so much."

  "I remember morning sickness." Mom leans down and pats my hand. "It wasn't so bad with you, but with the boys it was terrible."

  I gape at her for a long moment. Shit. She already knows I'm pregnant. Then again, how could she not know when I'm a barfing mess? I was hoping I could break it to her some other way.

  "You forgot your pills at my house, remember?" Mom says as if answering my thoughts. "You show up three weeks later sick with a sulking fiancé."

  "Sulking?" I struggle to sit up on my elbows. "He's sulking? Where is he? "

  Mom pulls up a chair and sits down beside me. "Downstairs with Doc."

  Oh, great. I wonder how Andrés has been dealing with my mom and stepdad. Doc is a sweet guy, but I can imagine him and my mom giving Andrés a lecture. I wonder if they are the reason Andrés was sulking, or maybe the reality of me being pregnant has finally sunk in. I've had three weeks to stress over this. He just found out this morning.

  "Is he still sulking?" I ask, almost afraid to know the answer.

  Mom heaves a sigh, and then eyes me pointedly. "If either of you are having second thoughts, I need to know before I start planning this wedding."

  "I'm not having second thoughts." I sit up straighter and, luckily, the room looks less tilted. "I love him, and I think we've got the wedding mostly planned." I hope my mom doesn't think I expect her to plan this wedding, especially not when Andrés wants to get married in a few weeks."We're doing it at his Tio's ranch. His aunts are going to make tamales and cake."

  Her eyes widen, and she's got this expression that looks a mixture between amusement and horror. "Christina, don't you want a real wedding?"

  "This would be a real wedding." I can't pretend I'm not offended by her comment. I know what she's talking about. I was raised by socialite parents, after all. My adoptive mother would have wanted me to have a grand wedding at the country club, or maybe someplace posh like Paris. She would have had a heart attack at a backyard wedding with tamales and Tejano music. But I guess I had hoped my birth mom would be different.

  "No, no," she says, laughing, which makes me feel even worse. "Like a formal reception at a five star hotel with a caterer and little mints on the tables."

  "Little mints?" I ask. I know the mints are small, but they are the start of something big. And big weddings take time, and money, something neither Andrés nor I have at the moment.

  "And fondue and shrimp puffs," she says in the same tone Grace uses to scold her evil Chihuahua when she catches him chewing her shoes.

  Ew. Fondue and shrimp puffs, something The Cobra, aka my evil adoptive mother, would want for my wedding. Fondue is okay, I guess, but I don't like shrimp unless it's in Spanish rice. I rest a hand on my stomach and groan. Just the thought of shrimp puffs makes me queasy.

  "I like Mexican food," I say, but this wave of dizziness makes me say it with less conviction than I'd intended.

  "It's a special occasion food," Mom says matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly natural thing to serve vomit -hors d'oeuvres at my wedding.

  I close my eyes and try to imagine Andrés eating shrimp puffs and little mints. I try to imagine him sipping champagne and dipping strawberries in a chocolate fountain. But the only image that comes to mind is Andrés drinking a Corona with a lime wedge. I can see him eating brisket or fajitas, but finger foods? He'd probably pile all the shrimp on to his plate and smother it in hot sauce.

  "Shouldn't our special occasion be filled with food we like?" That wave of dizziness turns into a hammer, pounding a nail right in the center of my forehead. Ugh. I lay back and look at my mom with eyes half-open. Can't she see I'm in no mood to discuss seafood pastries? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to combine the two, anyway? What's next, the anchovy doughnut?

  "What would you rather serve your guests, a tamale or a shrimp puff?" she asks me haughtily, which is not a good thing. I'm having Spitting Cobra déjà vu.

  "My guests?" I ask through a groan. "It's mostly going to be Andrés's family and you guys, Grace and Violet, and a few sorority sisters. I'm pretty sure they all like tamales."

  Mom leans in and clasps my hands. She stares at me with watery eyes. Great. I hate watching people cry, especially her.

  "Christina," she says with a shaky voice, "you're my only daughter. My only. All these years we spent apart, all the milestones I missed. Let me make it up to you. Let me throw you a lavish wedding."

  "Mom, I—"

  She holds up a silencing palm. "I want to do this for you. I'll pay for everything. We'll fly to New York and have your dress made. I know some of the top designers." She smiles at that, as if I'd be happy to travel an
ywhere other than to the bathroom and back.

  I sink back into my pillow as that nail in my forehead twists and turns. The sharp ache is so severe, it sends another wave of nausea straight to my empty gut. I hate being pregnant. Why did I even bother waking up? I wish there was some way I could sleep through the next eight months.

  I'm not in the mood to argue, so I nod my assent and close my eyes. She can serve the shrimp puffs. I'll probably be too sick to eat anything, anyway.

  ***

  I'm resigned to lying in bed the rest of the day, doctor's (aka, my stepdad's) orders. Luckily, my stepdad was an ER doctor for several years before he became a pediatrician, and he's had experience dealing with severe morning sickness. He made me ginger tea and gave me motion sickness bracelets, which seem to be working, because the room has only a slight tilt now. It sucks not being able to do anything, but Andrés and I pass the time playing poker. Too bad strip poker is out of the question, but I'm too queasy to think about anything sexual right now.

  I stare down at my hand, hoping a pair of sevens beats whatever Andrés is holding. I peer at him over my cards, and the guy's face is totally unreadable. I'm usually pretty good at gauging his moods, but not when it comes to cards.

  Oh, well. What's a few more chips added to Andrés's growing pile? "My mom wants us to have a different kind of wedding." I almost quote her by saying, "real wedding" but I know Andrés would be insulted. Truthfully, I was offended when my mom said it, but I don't think she meant to come off that way.

  "Is that what you want?" he asks, keeping his eyes on his cards.

  I heave a sigh. "I don't know. I was kind of looking forward to tamales."