Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
I'm scared for Peyton, though.
I’m scared about the changes her body will go through and how that’ll affect her. Will she be in pain? Will her hips hurt which means she’ll have difficulty walking? I remember her recovery like it was yesterday. I saw the pain on her face each time she went to physical therapy, each time she stood to walk. Seeing her like that about killed me because there wasn’t anything I could do, other than blame myself for her being in the situation to begin with.
We walk in and while Peyton goes to check in with her mountain of paperwork, I scan the room for two seats next to each other. There isn’t one, and it’s not like I’m going to ask an expectant mother to move.
As I look around, most of these mothers, with different sized bellies, are alone. This doesn’t sit well with me. Yes, I know expectant fathers can’t get the time off from work to go to the appointments, which just proves another issue with our healthcare system. I find a vacant seat near the window and in the corner and stand against the wall while I wait for my wife. When she walks over, her smile is wide.
“Sit here,” I tell her.
“Or I could sit on your lap.”
The offer is tempting. I shake my head. “Professionalism,” I tell her, although there is no need. I know she’s joking . . . at least I think she is. “Did everything go okay?”
She nods. “I have more paperwork to fill out.”
My eyes roll hard. They sent her a packet of crap already, which took her an hour to fill out. Now, a clipboard rests on her lap.
“They want to know where you work and what you do?”
The question makes me laugh. It’s as if my profession or any other spouse’s profession make a difference in a woman’s pregnancy. I suppose if I worked in the mines or something, it would.
“Professional gigolo,” I tell her.
Peyton snorts. “You wish. I’ve seen you dance,” she says quietly.
“It’s not all about dancing. It’s about how I move . . .” I trail off when she glares at me. The woman next to her stifles a giggle, which makes me smile.
I nudge Peyton with my knee. “You should put QB1.”
“You’re not in high school anymore, Noah.”
“Good thing. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting in this waiting room.” Many times over the years there have been instances where I wished I could say she was my high school or college sweetheart. There’s something about the connection my parents have, or even Peyton’s mom had with Mason. I remember watching Katelyn and Mason, always in sync with each other. It’s funny to think about it now, though. I can’t imagine Katelyn without Harrison. They’re not high school or college anything, and yet you would never know it. Their relationship is so fluid, even in a room full of people, they gravitate toward each other.
Peyton kicks my foot with hers. A sign I should probably stop while I’m ahead or I’ll end up paying for it later. The thought is tempting, but I’m not going to push my luck. Not today. She has enough on her plate.
She finishes the paperwork and takes it back to the reception desk. I stand there, making an error in judgment when I glance at the woman in the seat next to Peyton’s. She smiles at me. It’s not one of those nice kinds of smiles, the one where they’re just being kind and whatnot. This smile shows interest, especially when her eyelashes flutter and she cocks her head.
Nope.
Besides the fact that I’m beyond happily married, and my wife is expecting our first child, something tells me this is not the place to pick up men. Maybe it’s because I’m here and her partner isn’t. For whatever the reason is, I don’t like her flirting, and she’s making me uncomfortable. Before I can pull my phone out of my pocket, Peyton returns. Her smile is the only one I want to see. It’s the only one that does things to me.
“How long did they say?” I ask as she sits back down.
“Just a few minutes.”
I nod and keep my eyes on my wife. Not that I mind looking at her. She’s fucking beautiful and sexy, even sexier now that she’s carrying my child. I reach for her hand, needing to touch her. It’s weird. I have this fear she’s going to slip away from me. I don’t even know why, but it started when our journey to parenthood did. My thumb moves over the bracelet, the one the guru gave me. I have no idea if it’s going to work, if it’s going to protect her or not, but she wears it.
“Peyton Westbury.”
As soon as her name’s called, we make our way to the nurse. She’s dressed in pink and blue scrubs with rubber duckies printed on them. They’re cute. She holds the door for us and as soon as we pass by, she steps in front of us.