Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
Huh?
I tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Yes, what?”
“Exactly.”
“Dallas, you’re not making any sense.”
As if she just realized I’m here, she squeals, launching her arms around my neck, almost strangling me to death. “A baby. We’re having a baby.”
“A what?”
“I’m pregnant, Romeo. Pregnant.”
“But we just started trying three weeks ago.”
Re-started, more like.
After I was poisoned, Shortbread and I decided we weren’t quite ready to expand our family and wanted to enjoy one another a little more before we devoted ourselves to someone else.
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She leans down and pats my dick, speaking directly to it. “Thank you for your wonderful contribution to this family.” Her head tips back, addressing the ceiling this time. “I can’t believe they worked.”
Dread churns in my gut. “Who are they?”
But it’s too late.
My personal agent of chaos is already sprinting down the halls toward our bedroom. I run a hand down my face, a little concerned about how hectic this house/library/whatever will be in nine months if my child takes after their mother.
I’m still dumbstruck.
It must have happened during our sixth honeymoon—the redo of our Parisian one. The shock soon molds into excitement.
Shortbread is going to be a mother. I’m going to be a father.
Within minutes, I’m on FaceTime with Oliver and Zach, who started the call.
I frown at Zach. “How did you know already?”
“Decatur called to thank Mom.” Zach is in Korea on business, brushing his teeth in his lavish hotel room.
“For?”
“Mom took Davenport to a temple to get Guan Yin talismans.” At my blank expression, he adds, “Fertility talismans.”
Of course, she did.
Helpful as always, Oliver chimes in, “If it’s a boy, you should name him Romeo Costa the Third.”
“Kindly go fuck yourself.”
“Good idea. I haven’t man handled the ham candle in sixteen hours now.”
Is he even speaking in English?
Zach sinks into a couch, the camera shaking with the movement. “At least we found out within a reasonable timeframe this time.”
“Three seconds is actually unreasonable,” I point out.
They ignore me, still bitter about what happened a few months ago.
In fact, Zach cuts right to it. “Is there a reason we found out your father died on the six o’clock news?”
“It wasn’t newsworthy enough for the nine o’clock cycle?”
Oliver scratches his temple. “Zach, don’t you ever worry that Romeo’s a sociopath?”
“I’m not a sociopath.”
Why am I speaking to these people instead of being with my pregnant wife right now?
Oh. That’s right.
Because I can hear her and Hettie gushing downstairs and know it will be at least ten minutes before I can safely approach her.
“Debatable.” Zach sets his phone down, slam-dunking his electric toothbrush into a glass cup. “Do you remember what you said when we came to offer our condolences?”
“I barely remember your hair color.”
“Welp. You win some, you lose some.” He mimics me down to the timbre of my voice. “And I just won some. Where’s my congratulations?”
“I mean, an ‘I’m happy for you’ would have been nice.”
If anything, I went easy on Senior during his life, for the sake of Dallas. I abandoned my revenge plans. That was generous enough.
Even Morgan got a free pass to return to America.
Last I heard, she’s living in a commune in the Appalachians.
Oliver tilts his head. “When I croak, will you deliver my eulogy speech? I need someone who’s emotionless enough to form words in the wake of my death. Everyone else will be too busy bawling.”
“You mean bowling.” Zach shuts the lights in his hotel room. Behind him, a sweeping view of Namsan Tower looms. “There will one hundred percent be a party.”
That’s my cue to hang up.
I press the end button, figuring Dallas has had enough time to do whatever she needed to do with Hettie.
By the time I enter our bedroom, she’s sitting in a sea of bright yellow paper, her arm shoved under our mattress, yanking more and more out. They keep coming like a clown’s handkerchief with no end in sight.
She holds one up to the light like it’s money she needs to check for authenticity. “These babies must’ve worked as soon as I got them. Maybe too well. What if we have twins? A triplet?”
I lean against the door, watching my wife exist.
Loudly. Messily. Unapologetically.
Just the way a woman loved is meant to bloom.
Like a rose in spring.