Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 198235 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 991(@200wpm)___ 793(@250wpm)___ 661(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 198235 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 991(@200wpm)___ 793(@250wpm)___ 661(@300wpm)
The office door opens and a woman with a basket draped over her arm walks in. ‘Ava Ward?’ She looks at Tom, and then follows his pointed pen over to me.
‘Hi,’ I say as she makes it to my desk and rests her hamper on the edge. ‘Can I help you?’ I don’t recognise her.
She pulls the gingham towel from the top of the carrier and my eyes naturally follow her hand into it. ‘Breakfast,’ She smiles, placing a paper bag in front of me, and then reaches back in, pulling out a takeaway coffee cup. ‘My coffee wasn’t good enough, so he had me pick one up from Starbucks. Cappuccino, extra shot, no chocolate or sugar.’ She doesn’t sound impressed. ‘Enjoy.’ And with that she turns and walks out.
I sigh and push the bag to the side. I’m not in the least bit hungry, but I’m dying for some coffee. I take a sip and immediately screw my face up at the bitter taste. ‘Ewww,’
‘All right?’ Tom frowns across the office at me.
‘Fine,’ I stand and take myself into the kitchen, removing the lid from my coffee and tipping sugar into the cup before giving it a good stir and taking another sip. I hum in sweet satisfaction.
‘Coffee for Ava!’ Sally walks into the kitchen, waving a Starbucks cup at me. ‘Oh?’ A look of complete confusion invades her face as she watches me gulping down the hot, sweet liquid.
I exhale happily. ‘Delivered, courtesy of my husband.’
She melts. ‘That’s so sweet.’
‘No, it wasn’t, actually. But I added a few myself.’ I walk past a puzzled looking Sal, back to my desk and dig through my bag when I hear my phone shout the arrival of a text.
Are you eating your breakfast?
I take another swig of my coffee and text back;
Yummy.
No thank you because I’m really not very grateful. I feel queasy, but the sweet coffee is going down a treat. I don’t get a chance to put my phone down before it chimes again.
I’m so glad our marriage is based on honesty.
My eyes instinctively lift and there he is, holding a bunch of calla lilies and with an annoyed glare drilling into me. I can’t prevent the long, drawn out exhale of air that rushes from my mouth as I lower myself to my chair. He strides over, giving Tom and Victoria a nod in greeting before sinking his tall, leanness into a chair on the other side of my desk, placing the flowers in front of me. ‘Eat.’ he orders flatly, nodding at the paper bag that’s been shoved to the side.
‘I’m not hungry, Jesse.’ I’m whining, but I can’t muster up the energy to retaliate or snap at him.
He leans forward, looking worried, his eyes evaluating my face. ‘Baby, you look pale.’
‘I feel rubbish.’ I admit. Finally morning sickness at the correct time of day. There is no point in feigning fine because I absolutely don’t feel it and I clearly don’t look it.
He rises and comes to stand behind my chair, leaning down and placing his palm across my brow and his mouth to my ear. ‘You’re hot.’
‘I know.’ I sigh, pushing my cheek to his mouth, my eyes closing with no instruction from my brain. How can I feel so exhausted still? ‘I hope you feel guilty.’ I say quietly. This is all his fault. I’m feeling sorry for myself.
I’m released and my chair swivelled around to face him. He crouches in front of me and takes my hands. ‘Let me take you home.’ he says, but I can tell by his pleading face that he knows I’ll refuse.
‘It’ll pass.’
‘You’re impossible sometimes.’ He reaches up to cup my cheek. ‘Pregnancy is making you moody and even more defiant.’
I force a small smile. ‘I like keeping you on your toes.’
‘You mean you like keeping me crazy.’
‘That, too.’
Sighing, he leans in and kisses me sweetly. ‘Please eat.’ He’s begging, not demanding. ‘It might make you feel better.’
‘Okay.’ I agree. I’m willing to try because even though the thought of swallowing food makes me want to gag, I couldn’t possibly feel any worse than I already do.
He looks a little surprised at my lack of disobedience. ‘Good girl,’
I’m turned back towards my desk and presented with the paper bag, and as I open it, the waft of bacon hits my nose and I do actually gag. ‘I don’t think I can.’ I snap the bag shut again, but it’s soon whipped from my hand, the bagel unpacked and placed on a napkin in front of me. As I gingerly pick at a corner and bring it to my lips, I’m fighting the overwhelming desire to run to the toilets and shove my fingers down my throat. I chew slowly for an age, under the watchful eye of my worried husband, then I swallow. I don’t retch. ‘Can I just eat the bagel?’ I pick at another piece. I can’t face the bacon.