Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
I jolt like I’ve been stabbed. And, again, trust me, I fucking know what that feels like. Her nostrils are flaring, her cheeks pulsing from the force of her bite, emotions getting the better of her. Of both of us. “I know you’re pregnant,” I say, as calmly as I can. “And I know how it’ll be.”
“Oh?” She’s laughing again. “How’s that, then?”
“Perfect,” I say quietly, reaching for her cheek, finding her eyes and making sure she sees the sincerity in mine. I don’t want to fight, and I know she doesn’t really want to either. She’s lashing out. Being hurtful. This isn’t Ava. This is what I’ve made her.
I wince those thoughts away as her body softens and she stares into my eyes, searching for reassurance. I’ll give it to her, all day long.
“Ava O’Shea,” the receptionist calls, snapping us out of our moment.
O’Shea?
Ava shoots up, and I follow. “Don’t you dare,” she snaps. “Sit.” I have never heard such anger in her tone, and I take notice, slowly lowering my arse back to the plastic obediently. She walks off, and I glance around the waiting room, seeing a few people looking this way, eyebrows high. Yes. I’m in the doghouse. Yes, my tail’s between my legs.
I grimace and stand, going to the reception desk and placing both palms on the wood. “It’s Ward,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“It’s Ava Ward, not Ava O’Shea.”
“Oh?” She taps a few keys on the computer. I don’t know why the fuck I’m standing here like a pillock telling the receptionist this. I realize Ava won’t have registered her married name yet. I’m just killing time, doing a bit of housekeeping, in an attempt to stop myself from storming into the doctor’s office.
“We got married on Saturday.”
“Oh, well if you tell Ava to email us, we can get that changed for her.”
“Can’t you do it now?”
“We need it in writing, sir. From Miss O’Shea.”
I huff and go back to the chair, checking my watch. Five minutes. I slump forward, staring down at my shoes.
Ten minutes pass.
Fifteen minutes.
How long do these things take? Ava tells the doctor she’s probably expecting, the doctor checks, and that’s it.
Right?
I crane my head to look down the corridor, drumming my fingers on my knees. I hear a door open. Freeze. Ava appears, and she looks awful. Fucking awful. I’m up like a rocket, racing to her. “Ava, what’s the matter?” She props herself against the wall, and I dip, seeing her face is damp. “Jesus, Ava.”
She stares at me, her eyes watery, her breathing a little fast. What is this? A panic attack?
I don’t have a chance to ask. She’s off, running across the hallway and falling through the doors of the ladies’. I’m in quick pursuit, there in a heartbeat, rubbing her back and scooping her hair back as she throws her guts up. Again.
She tries to talk but each time she’s stopped by another retch. “Shhhh,” I hush, looking back when the door opens. A middle-aged, blond lady takes in the scene, definitely frowning at me.
“Oh dear, should I get you some water?”
“Please,” I say, shuffling in closer to Ava, moving her hair to my other hand and pulling off some tissue. “Are you done?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds far from done, like she’s choking.
“It’s okay, we can stay.” I get as comfortable as a six-foot-three-inch bloke can get in a toilet cubicle crouching. Really uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she is.
The door opens behind me again, the lady appearing with some water. A doctor? I tilt my head in question, silently asking her what’s wrong with my wife. Of course, she doesn’t entertain me. “Can I get you anything?” she asks.
“It’s good, thank you. I’ve got her.”
She nods, that frown back, and leaves the ladies’.
“Here,” I say, putting the water in front of Ava, helping her take some. “Take as long as you need.” As long as she needs is a few sips and about thirty seconds. It’s not long enough.
“I’m good.” She takes some tissue from my hand and sniffs as I rise.
“Here.” She lets me help her up and also lets me fix her hair. I’m grateful. “Do you want some more water?”
She nods, accepting the glass and going to the sink, getting some fresh water and rinsing her mouth and generally doing what I just did—fixing her hair. It feels like a ploy to waste some time, and I know it is when her hands pause and she looks at me.
“Let me take you home,” I beg.
“Jesse, I’m fine,” she breathes. “Really.”
She’s maddening. She’s not fine, and I think I might blow my stack if she says it one more time. “Let me look after you,” I whisper, feeling at her cheek, watching her in the reflection trying her damnedest not to sink into my touch. She’s made her point. I get it. We need to move on.