Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Harlow reluctantly nods.
“I’m just one click away if you have any questions we didn’t cover today.” She hits me a good luck grin and slips past us out the door.
Once I hear the click that confirms we’re alone, I launch myself onto my feet and into her face. “Let’s get something real fucking clear before we walk out of this room, Harlow.” One palm plants itself on each side of her open thighs. “You are done fucking around when it comes to this shit.”
“I-”
“No more fucking canceling appointments because you’re ‘busy’-”
“I am busy!”
“You are busy, but that’s not why you haven’t been coming, and we both fucking know it!”
“I-”
“You haven’t been coming because you wanna keep avoiding the fact that you’re really fucking pregnant. That you’re about to do some shit you are not ready to fucking do. That you’ll probably never be ready to do but fucking nut up, buttercup.”
Her jaw drops in outrage.
“You are growing not one but two fucking people right now and that’s the part of this shit that only you can fucking do, baby. I can and will be here for all the other shit but only you can do this part, so I need you to fucking do this part. To stop being so fucking selfish and for cripes sake be responsible!”
“I need you stop being so goddamn sexy and strong and get off your Raging Bull shit for like ten seconds and let me fucking breathe!”
“No.” My bite is given at the same time I invade her space further. “If I give you a fucking inch right now, your ass will skate a fucking mile, Harlow, and I’m not letting you risk our kids or my wife’s life because you don’t wanna deal with what’s happening!”
“I’m fucking scared shitless!”
“Me too!”
The admission I haven’t said to anyone besides myself in the shower seems to soften her tense demeanor.
“Fuck, baby, me too,” I quietly reassure, face just inches from hers. “But we gotta stop playing defense with this whole situation and get into the offense position.”
Seeing a slight shift in her brown gaze pushes me to continue.
“Raising babies isn’t bush league shit. I know. I get it. But I’m here. I’m on your team. I’m willing and ready to do whatever I gotta do to get us through this pre-season shit and into the minors.”
Her lips quiver as they fight the urge to smile.
“We’re rookies together. Like the doc said, you’re not alone, so for the love of Gretzky could you please stop fucking acting like it?”
For the first time outside of a blowy, I see tears collect in her eyes; however, rather than acknowledge them—and get a kick to the nuts for doing so—I simply maintain my hold on her stare until she nods in submission.
“Good.” My frame steps away to retrieve her workout tights from the place they were banished on the ground. “We’ll make an appointment on the way out and then we’ll put it and all future appointments in our phone calendars and order a fucking wall calendar for the kitchen, too.”
“And tell Margot.”
Offering her the pair of black stretchy pants I love for being mildly see-through is done on a smirk. “Didn’t that go without saying?”
She snatches the pants on a small snigger.
After wiggling back into her bottoms, Harlow adjusts her oversized tank top to properly cover her starting to round stomach that we still haven’t told many people about and kicks her head towards the door for us to bail.
Personally?
I kind of wanna tell everyone.
Like fucking strangers in line at the grocery store type of everyone.
I almost did yesterday when I was buying almond milk.
It was on the tip of my fucking tongue and everything.
But that’s—unfortunately—not my call to make.
She’s got a bigger picture of shit to think about before just telling the whole world, “Hey look, I’m knocked up!”.
Again, I understand this shit, but I don’t like it, which is a common theme in our marriage.
Geoffrey finally knows and can hardly fucking believe it. Good news is he’s excited. Keeps claiming he’s going to be the Godfather and that Margot can’t be the Godmother because a house is due to drop on her any day now.
Post making another appointment—against all of my wife’s bitching and moaning that it’ll probably interfere with some really crucial meeting—we stroll side by side to and through the parking lot to Margot’s vehicle where she has leaned back her seat and let the windows down for more comfortable reading on her phone.
“How’d it go?” she inquires, body swiveling to be our direction. “Is it growing actual feet or hockey skates?”
The teasing is met by a glare from her best friend and a chuckle from me. “They are growing feet. Or at least…I think those were feet? They were webbed so either feet or flippers.”