Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
I could tell his little speech made Emmanuell feel better, but her shoulders were still slumped. I lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. She gasped and stared at me. So I winked at her. When she smiled, Dr. Redding chuckled.
“I knew Mr. Leigh would be a good influence on you.”
“It’s Ripper, Doc,” I said. “Everyone calls me Ripper.”
“All right, then. Ripper.” He stood and held out his hand to me. “You’re taking really good care of her. Not every man who comes into this office with their woman can say that.” He turned back to Emmanuell. “Only a few more weeks to go. I’d like to see you make it to at least thirty-five weeks, but with three babies, thirty-three weeks is usually where we end up stopping. We’ll be taking it week by week from here on out. Any change in the way you feel, any discharge that shouldn’t be there or bleeding, any pain in your back or abdomen, you tell Doc immediately. He’ll either have a look himself or call me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a small smile. “I really appreciate all you’ve done to help me, Dr. Redding. Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome, my dear.”
As usual, we stopped to eat after her appointment. She was always so nervous before I could barely coax her to eat anything, but her appetite was always raging afterward. Probably a combination of nerves and hunger. While she was still underweight by Dr. Redding’s estimates, she was getting there. She looked a thousand times better than when she’d first come to me.
Of all the places in the whole fucking city, Emmanuell always had a craving for Fazoli’s when she’d been stressed or sick. When her appetite returned, she wanted Fazoli’s spaghetti and a shit-ton of breadsticks. Even Lucy’s homemade spaghetti couldn’t satisfy her.
“We don’t have to go here,” Emmanuell said softly. I was aware she was fragile after the doctor’s visit. She always was. No matter how I tried to build her up or how much everyone doted on her, she still felt guilty for the first six months of her pregnancy. Also, I thought the fact she’d lost her father was finally starting to sink in, and she was experiencing survivor’s guilt. I hadn’t broached that with her, but it was going to have to happen. Lord knew, I had experience with survivor’s guilt.
“We do. Got a hankerin’ for pasta.”
She snorted. “You hate this place.”
“Do not. They make a mean lasagna.” She was right. I totally hated the place. But she didn’t. And I wanted her to have whatever she wanted.
I parked before sliding out of the truck seat. Which was another thing. I’d been off my bike for weeks now. Emmanuell couldn’t ride behind me safely, and I didn’t want to leave her alone to get my riding fix. Before I could get around to her side, she was already trying to get out on her own.
“Hey, hang on a second!” I trotted to her and helped her slide to the ground. “I told you to wait for me to help you down.”
“If you’d drive something other than a monster truck I wouldn’t need help,” she grumbled. It was a continuing argument. One she only grumbled about right after a doctor’s appointment. When she felt so out of sorts. Besides, it wasn’t a monster truck. Just an F-150 that was a tiny bit jacked up.
“I’ll drive a Bug next time.” Standard response.
“Yeah. I’d like to see you fold yourself into stupid Bug.” Also standard response.
“Until then, let me help you out. ’K?” I shut and locked the door, then escorted her inside.
As usual, she got a large spaghetti with meat sauce. I got the lasagna and another large spaghetti. Because I knew from experience one wouldn’t be enough for her. She glanced at me when I ordered, then ducked her head. Probably embarrassed. I put my arm around her, pulling her to me, and kissed her temple.
She looked up at me, giving me a startled look. I winked at her, and she smiled. I tried not to be overly affectionate with her, but it was clear as water she needed it. Even wanted it. And I sure as hell wanted to give it.
We sat, and she started in. When her first plate was done, I scooted the second one over to her, and she never missed a beat. Once she’d finished the second plate, she sighed and sat back with a sigh. I was still forking pasta into my mouth, taking my time in case she wanted to trespass. We sat side by side, me on the outside of the booth so she could easily help herself.
“You need more?”
“What? No! No. I’m good.”
“It’s OK, you know. If you want more.”
“No. I’ve had plenty.” She smiled up at me gently. “You always make sure I have everything I need. Especially food.” She set her fork down and wiped her mouth. “Why are you so good to me, Gideon?”