Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Danny withdraws. “What about it?”
“Forensics found an item of clothing at The Pink Flamingo. It had traces of Kendrick’s blood on it. They’re looking for the club owner, Elsa Dove.”
Fucking hell, Ringo sure did sort that problem.
“Elsa Dove?” Danny muses, nodding, smiling mildly. “You know, Dove is a massive flirt. Not much of a lady’s lady. I’m not surprised. I bet it was over a man.”
“Sure,” Higham muses. “You?”
Danny smirks as the other sports bag lands at Higham’s feet. “Happy retirement,” James says, and Higham wastes no time picking up the bag and throwing it over his shoulder.
“Where will you go?” Danny asks.
“Far, far away from you three.” He turns and leaves with a certain lightness around him, and we walk off in the opposite direction, all of us silent. Thoughtful.
All of our enemies. Dead. We’re . . . what? Free? Able to live normal lives? Peaceful lives?
“It’s the oddest feeling, isn’t it?” Danny says as we walk. “No one left to kill.”
“Really odd,” I admit. Like something’s missing from our lives.
“Can I go on my honeymoon now?” James asks, and I laugh, along with Danny. “You can come.”
“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” I muse, smiling on the inside.
“At least nine months,” Danny adds.
“What?” James stops, looking between us.
“Pearl’s pregnant,” I say easily.
He laughs. Stops. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
James is silent, barely suppressing his amusement.
“You can laugh,” I say tiredly, looking at Danny, seeing he’s ready to burst again, too. I roll my eyes. “And you.”
I head back to my love, leaving behind two British assassins falling around the corridor, hysterical, crying with laughter.
And I smile.
So fucking wide, my face hurts.
76
PEARL
* * *
Did I imagine him here? Dream it? I move my eyes but not my head, looking at what I can. I’m still in the room with loud machines and hazy strip lighting. I see the doctor in the corner, writing notes.
“My love.”
I breathe in and wince, the pressure on my chest hurting.
“Easy,” Brad whispers, appearing above me. His smile would knock my socks off if I had any on. I return it as best I can and settle, trying to lift an arm to reach him but failing. He takes my hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I wish I could cuddle you.”
I smile again. I wish that too. I fight to clear my throat, feeling like a tennis ball is stuck there.
“Thirsty?”
I nod again, and Brad brings a straw to my mouth, his face twisting when I try to drink. I literally have nothing in me.
Pained, he sucks some water up through it, holding it in the straw and coming down to me. His lashes flicker, his eyes dancing, his stubble on the longer side of perfect. I open my mouth, and he releases, letting it trickle past my lips. It feels delightful, cold and refreshing. “More?” he asks, and I nod, so he goes again, sucking, holding, releasing until the glass is empty. I mourn the loss of his face so close, when I can study every gorgeous bit of it.
“What have”—another cough—“you been up to”—and one more—“while I’ve been away?”
He laughs lightly. “Don’t ask.” He dips and kisses my lips, and I hate that I can’t return it. “Is there something you need to tell me?” He pulls back and scans my face as I frown, thinking.
“I don’t . . . think so.”
“You sure?” he asks, head tilted.
I clear my throat again, forcing the lump and dryness away. “Well, I’ve been un . . . conscious for—”
“Six hours.”
“Feels like six . . . years.”
“I know the feeling.” He raises his brows. “Are you sure?”
“About what?”
“About having nothing to tell me.”
“What’s going . . . on?” I ask, getting agitated, shifting on the bed and regretting it. “God . . . damn . . .”
“Keep still.”
“Fine.” I’m out of bloody breath already. Useless. “Tell me what’s . . . going on.”
His lips roll, his forehead becoming heavy. I don’t like that look. “You’re pregnant.”
I still, staring at him as he obviously watches for my reaction. “Pardon . . . me?” Is he trying to be funny? Because I haven’t the capacity to laugh.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I heard you . . . the first . . . time.”
He laughs. “Then don’t ask me to repeat myself.”
“I can’t be preg . . . pregnant,” I grate, straining with the effort to remain still. “This is a really stupid”—Breathe—“joke.”
“I’m not joking.” He smiles softly, taking my hand. “You’re going to be a mom.”
“I’m too . . . young to be a . . . mum.”
“And I’m old enough to be a dad?”
“Maybe too . . . old,” I wheeze.
“Thanks.”
“Pregnant?”
He nods, very slowly, very seriously. I turn my wide-eyed stare up to the ceiling. Frown. Wait. “And the baby’s . . . okay?”
“The baby is fine, but you’re on strict bed rest and watch.”