Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Love you, baby,” I whisper.
“I love you, too,” she whispers back, looking into my eyes.
She does love me. How or why, I don’t know. But I’m one lucky guy.
Seven years later
ANTONIO
“Like this, Daddy?”
I look down at my beautiful daughter, Esmeralda, and smile.
“Yeah, baby. Just like that,” I encourage as she presses out a ball of dough onto the flat metal surface. Her hair—the same color as her mom’s—is tied back in a ponytail. Her tongue is sticking out of her mouth.
“Are you going to teach me how to toss it in the air?” she asks hopefully.
I laugh.
“Do you want me to teach you how to toss it in the air?”
“Yeah! That’s the funniest part.”
“All right.” I pick up a pizza dough that I have already pressed out and toss it into the air, showing her how to do it. Then I watch her try with an amused smile on my face.
“Mommy, look,” Esmeralda says. I turn my eyes to my wife and watch her walk toward us. Seeing the look in her eyes, I find it almost hard to breathe. Dropping my eyes to our daughter, I watch her toss the ball of dough into the air and twirl it around.
“If you get any better at that, honey, I’m going to put you to work.” Libby smiles at our girl before resting her hand against my arm. Looking down into her eyes, I smile. Then I drop my mouth to hers for a quick kiss.
“I thought you were supposed to be taking the day off . . . ,” I say.
She rolls her eyes.
“I slept in. I’m okay now,” she says.
I move my eyes to her stomach. She’s nine months pregnant, and this pregnancy has been harder on her than the last.
“You need to be home, Princess. You need to rest.”
“I want to be here, spending time with my family,” she counters.
I sigh, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. She loves the pizzeria. It’s her baby, too, and dragging her away from it is like pulling teeth.
“We will all go home together as soon as our pizzas are done.”
“I have some stuff to take care of in the office.”
“Don’t make me talk to Hector,” I whisper.
She narrows her eyes. The week after she found out she was pregnant with Esmeralda, she offered Hector and Marco part of Princess Pizza. Even though it was her baby, she knew they would love and care for it just as much as she did. So they worked it out where the three of them would each work a couple of days a week and hire extra people to help take over. Now my wife only works two days a week and does most of the paperwork.
“Fine. We’ll all go home when the pizzas are done,” she gives in.
I fight back a smile, knowing she won’t like that much.
“Don’t pout, Princess. I’m just worried about you and our boy.”
“I know,” she agrees quietly, rubbing her belly, my son no doubt kicking up a storm.
Placing another soft kiss on her lips, we turn our attention to our daughter. We watch her toss her pizza dough into the air and spin it around before she puts her toppings on it and I place it in the oven.
“Oh god!” Libby cries, tucking her face against my chest.
I pull my eyes from the TV and frown. She’s never scared when we’re watching scary movies.
“It’s happening.”
“What?” I pull her face away from my chest and look into her wide eyes.
“I . . .” She stops and clutches her hands to her stomach.
I feel my eyes widen. “Shit.” I get off the couch and lean down over her. “Breathe, baby.”
“I’m breathing.” Her mouth pinches, and her eyes fill with worry. “I feel . . . he’s coming.”
“I’m going to get Esmeralda up and grab the bag. Just stay here and breathe,” I order.
She nods.
“Be right back.” I place a quick kiss on the top of her head, then run for Esmeralda’s room. I turn on the light so I don’t kill myself by tripping over one of the toys scattered across her bedroom floor.
“Daddy . . .”
“You need to get up and get dressed, baby. Mommy’s going to be having your brother soon,” I tell her.
A beautiful smile lights up her face before she bounds from her bed and starts to rush around her room.
Knowing she’s getting ready, I head for the master suite and grab Libby’s hospital bag from the closet. I toss it on the bed before I grab a pair of jeans and put them on, then grab a shirt and put that on, too. Dressed, I grab some clothes for Libby and head back out to the living room.
She’s now kneeling on the couch, with her face tucked into a pillow.
“Something’s wrong,” she whimpers, lifting her head. “You should call an ambulance.”