Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Suddenly, there’s a banging on my door and I can’t imagine who it could be. I haven’t been noisy, nor am I expecting any deliveries.
“Wrong door,” I call out, assuming that the visitor is looking for one of my neighbors. I just want to be left alone to contemplate this miracle, even if it’s scary and overwhelming.
“Whitney, open the damn door!” a deep voice thunders.
I freeze. Oh shit, it’s Peter. I’m so not ready to face him.
“Whitney, if this is about the bakery, I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars to keep it afloat. Let me in. I just want to talk to you,” he calls.
I hear a door swing open across the hall.
“I’ll help out at the bakery for a hundred grand,” my sketchy neighbor Trevor volunteers. I hate that guy and his skeezy ways. Stomping to the front door, I yank it open and pull Peter inside before he gets himself mugged.
“How did you get in the building?” I demand, my voice raised in accusation. My face is blotchy, I’m in a pair of old sweats that haven’t been washed in a week, and my hair is a rat’s nest. Oh well. This is what he gets.
“I knocked on the first floor window and flashed a hundred dollar bill. Your downstairs neighbor had no qualms about buzzing me in,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Jesus, Peter, you’re going to get yourself mugged. This isn’t TriBeCa. This is Hell’s Kitchen! It’s not safe!”
He just shrugs again, looking ungodly handsome as usual. His black hair is pushed back and those cobalt eyes seem even more blue in the dim light of my apartment.
“I don’t care. I couldn’t let you lock me out of your life without a fight. What’s going on, Whitney? I thought everything was going so well between us. I miss you, sweetheart, but ugh, you look terrible. Are you really that sick? Why won’t you let me help you?”
My traitor cat is curling in and out of Peter’s legs, and I shake with a mix of fury and sadness. Why does he have to be so irresistible? Did he just call me “sweetheart” again? My heart breaks even as I launch into my tirade.
“Peter, I can’t be a place holder until you go back to your regular life.”
“You can’t be a what?” he asks, his brow wrinkling. “I didn’t get that.”
I take a deep breath.
“A place holder. You know, someone who keeps the spot called ‘girlfriend’ occupied until the real thing comes along.”
He looks totally baffled.
“Where would you get such a ridiculous idea? You aren’t a place holder. Who told you that?”
I shake my head.
“Peter, I can never be what those socialites and supermodels are.”
He shoots me a wry look.
“Of course you can’t. You don’t have it in you to be shallow or superficial, sweetheart. You’re kind and warm and sexy and beautiful and so many other things and that’s exactly why I’m in love with you. I hate those girls, and have had it up to here with them. I want you, Whitney.”
My ears ring, and it’s as if I’m standing at the bottom of a pool, looking up. Peter is looking down at me while saying something, but I can’t hear. Did he just say that he’s in love with me?
Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over my form and I race to the bathroom before violently vomiting up the limited contents of my stomach. It’s ugly. Drool falls from the corners of my mouth as I heave, and little spatters of breakfast hit the white porcelain bowl. I feel Peter gather my hair back and hold it out of the way as my body shudders again to ensure I have nothing left.
When I stand straight once more, he leans against the door, his muscular arms folded across the broad chest. His expression is impassive.
“You’re pregnant,” he says flatly.
I say nothing because the indicator is still sitting on the side of the tub. Shit, I completely forgot. It’s too late to hide it from him now.
I grab my toothbrush to scour the acidic taste from my mouth as he simply leans against the door jamb of my matchbook size bathroom, watching me.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice oddly calm.
I turn to him.
“I just found out. I would have told you eventually, but I want you to know: you don’t have to feel obligated in any way. I know you didn’t sign up for an instant family when you decided to watch a cam girl show. It was an accident, and accidents happen sometimes. I’m a big girl and I can take care of it.”
He turns me to face him, placing his hands on my shoulders and staring at me with those ocean blue eyes. He has a little bit of scruff on his face, but the coal black waves of his hair gleam and his muscles look more toned than ever. God, why does he have to be so handsome, even now?