Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“Dr. Pierce?” The receptionist sounds confused. “I’m afraid we don’t have a Dr. Pierce here.”
“But it says online that he works at this practice. Or worked.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ve only been here for eighteen months, so perhaps it was before me.”
“Perhaps,” I muse. “Could you ask someone who’s been there longer?”
“Sure. I’ll have the practice manager call you back.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay then, goodbye.”
“You’ve not taken my name or number.”
“Your number is on my screen. Ends in 674?”
“That’s it.”
“And your name?”
I don’t want to give it in case it rings any bells with anyone. Like whom? I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. I can’t imagine Alan will want to hear from me. So I scratch around in my brain for a name. Any name. Fuck. “Norman,” I blurt. “Norman Partridge.” What the fuck?
“Got it.” She hangs up, and I have absolutely no faith that anyone will call me back. “Norman fucking Partridge?” I question as Bianca approaches. I hand over the cash as promised.
“I just took it over,” she says. “She looked surprised.”
“You mean annoyed?” I reply over a laugh.
“Yes, and that. Are you smothering her?”
“Apparently,” I mutter, leaving the cafe. “Thanks, Bianca.”
“Anytime, Mr. Ward.”
I bet. I give Ava’s office front a wide berth—or as wide as I can while walking on the same street—and head to the florist.
The girl looks up when I push my way in, and then gets to work quickly. “When am I delivering?” she asks.
“You’re not.”
She blinks, surprised. “I’m not?”
“I’m delivering them myself today.” I hand over some cash, my chest puffing out. “It’s a special occasion.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“We’re expecting.”
“Expecting what?”
My shoulders drop. “A ba—”
“I’m playing with you, Mr. Ward.”
“Oh. Okay.” I grimace, giving her grabby hands. “Very funny. Give me the flowers.”
She hands them over on a smirk, and I scowl lightly. “Congratulations, Mr. Ward. And have a good day.”
“Yeah, you too,” I say, pulling in my suit jacket and breathing deeply as I pace down the street, unconsciously checking the face of every blond woman I see. Paranoid.
I’m not expecting to be welcomed with open arms by my wife. The flowers are a bargaining chip. Lilies in exchange for acceptance. I’m not holding my breath that they’ll work, but this is me listening to my wife. Flowers are an acceptable form of smothering, I’m sure of it. Couple that with storming her office, which I know to be unacceptable, I’m hoping I land somewhere in the middle.
Arriving at the Rococo Union office, I look through the glass. She’s standing at her desk. Breakfast untouched. For God’s sake.
I text her.
Are you eating your breakfast?
I watch as she looks down at her mobile. Did she just roll her eyes?
Yummy.
She’s a gem.
I’m so glad our marriage is based on honesty.
Did you really just text that, bro?
I scowl, ignoring Jake, as I push my way through the door, and Ava stills for a moment before she looks up at me. She drops to her chair, exasperated. She should try being married to my wife. I nod my hellos to her colleagues as I walk to her desk and help myself to the chair on the other side.
“Eat.” I place the flowers down, motioning to the paper bag.
“I’m not hungry, Jesse.”
She might be if she knew how much that poxy roll cost me. Or it might make her a bit nauseous. Speaking of which . . . “Baby, you look pale.”
“I feel rubbish,” she breathes, shrinking in the chair. My God, what is she doing here? She doesn’t want to be at work, feels terrible, but to prove her fucking point, whatever the fuck that is, she’s forcing herself to endure the torture. Am I going to have to put my foot down? Pick her up and carry her out? Because I will.
I stand and round her chair, feeling at her forehead. I expect her to bat my fussing hands away. The fact that she doesn’t only reinforces how drained she is. “You’re hot.”
“I know.” She accepts my kiss on her cheek as I pull her hair off her face, checking over my shoulder for Peterson. His office door is open, his desk empty. Where is he?
“I hope you feel guilty,” she mumbles.
Right now, I really do. But I can make her feel better. Look after her, if she’d only bloody let me. I lower to my haunches and turn her chair toward me, my face soft, my eyes softer. “Let me take you home.”
“It’ll pass,” she says on a weak smile.
“You’re impossible sometimes. Pregnancy is making you moody and even more defiant.”
“I like keeping you on your toes.”
Yes, I’m a fucking ballerina these days. “You mean you like keeping me crazy.”
“That too.”
I’m not going to win this one. And forcing anything work related isn’t getting me any brownie points. So I’ll have to endure her job until she relents to pregnancy. I truly hope Ava gets more happiness and fulfillment from being a mother, so much so, she wants to be a stay-at-home mum. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I’d be a stay-at-home dad too. We’ll be stay-at-home parents. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that option. We do. Both of us present and undistracted by life to raise our baby. Be there constantly. It would be perfect. I rise and peck Ava’s lips. “Please eat. It might make you feel better.”