Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
In any case, as I said, I can’t make him see anything right now.
So I give up for the time being and answer him, “Yes. I’m not upset, Ledger. Your brother wasn’t —”
“I’ll deal with my brother later.”
“There’s nothing to deal with.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, the residual tension still lining his features.
Which reminds me that I did have a purpose in coming here; I just wanted to see him. And why exactly I wanted to do that. It actually all comes rushing back, jarring into me and stealing all my breaths.
Stealing all the hope from my chest.
Six weeks.
I only have six more weeks with him.
Schooling my features to remain calm, I whisper, “I just wanted to see you.”
He studies me carefully and I hope I don’t give anything away.
I don’t want to stress him out before his comeback game. Not to mention when I do tell him, I’m obviously not going to disclose the truth. That I’m getting married to the man he doesn’t even want me saying the name of.
Which means I’m going to have to lie.
And I’m not looking forward to that.
As much as I hate the game I’m playing with practically everyone in my life at this point, I’m still okay with it. What I’m not okay with and absolutely do not want to do is lie to him.
Just the thought of it makes my chest tight.
But I don’t have any other choice.
If I want to keep my brother and his family safe, I have to do this.
So I will but I don’t have to do anything right this second, do I?
Meaning I’m going to have to keep a lid on my emotions right now.
“You feeling sick?” he asks then.
“No.” I shake my head, trying for a smile. “Not at all. I’m fine. My nausea’s gone now, remember? It’s been gone for days now. You know that.”
“Yeah, but pregnancy is fucking weird.”
This time I don’t have to try; my smile is genuine and amused. “It’s not.”
“It fucking is.”
“I love being pregnant,” I say truthfully.
Even the nausea part.
Crazily or maybe not so crazily, it makes me think that my body is doing its job. That they’re safe in there. They’re growing and healthy and if I have to suffer for a few weeks, then so be it.
Of course Ledger has different opinions and he hasn’t hesitated in sharing them.
Not so much with words though. But with his body language.
That would get all tight and agitated every time I threw up what I ate.
In fact he even scared the nurse one time. I was on the scale and she made an innocent comment about the weight that I’d lost. Which was only three pounds by the way. And God, she nearly pissed her pants when Ledger pierced her with his angry gaze. As if it was her fault that I was losing weight.
My guy is crazy.
And beautiful.
And I don’t know what I’ll do when the six weeks are up and I have to leave him.
“Well, I’m really fucking glad,” he bites out.
His anger only manages to amuse me more. “You don’t like me pregnant?”
“I don’t like you throwing up.”
“It’s just the hormones.”
“If I have to hear hormones one more time, I’m going to punch a hole in this wall.”
“And twins, remember? So double the hormones.”
“You just said the magic word, Firefly.”
I chuckle. “Besides, who knew you had such super fertile sperm.”
He pulls a face. “We knew.”
I roll my eyes. “So it’s all your fault anyway.”
He comes closer, his biceps bunching. “I know.”
All my amusement vanishes then, and rubbing his corded and vibrating biceps, I say, “Remember what the doctor said? It’s all normal and I’m healthy. So you can relax.”
His jaw clenches and he says in a raspy tone, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone upset you.”
“No one —”
“Who was it?”
“Ledger —”
He comes even closer, his arms vibrating with the effort. “Who upset you?”
My heart is pounding in my chest and with choppy breaths, I lie, “No one.”
“Was it your father?”
“No.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
I swallow thickly. “It wasn’t.”
“You know I’m going to fuck him up, don’t you?”
My heart races even more at his violent tone. “I don’t need you to.”
“Yeah, I know.” Then, “That’s why I haven’t done anything.”
“And you won’t.”
“Yet,” he qualifies.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. I look at his violent eyes and harsh features and he’s probably noticing my rapid breaths and pink cheeks. I don’t know what he’s thinking but I know what I’m thinking.
It’s the same thing that I think every time I look at him these days. Every time I see his concerned frown when he watches me struggle with my pregnancy symptoms or watch him come back home — God, home — all stressed and agitated after a long day of practice or his therapy sessions.
The same thing that I think when he slides into bed with me and wraps me up in his arms and lets me burrow into his chest. And when he slides out of bed in the morning, I think that very same thing again.