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)
Better.
And that’s that. I contemplate calling her but go against my instinct and get on my way again, stalling getting behind the wheel of her Range Rover when I see someone looking through the gates. “Can I help you?” I call.
“Delivery for Jesse Ward,” he says, holding up a package.
Ah, my pregnancy book. I jog over, give him a signature, and accept the package through the railings. “Thanks.” I go to Ava’s car, jumping in and throwing the package on the passenger seat, smiling at the stitching in the headrest. Maybe I’ll have peanut’s name stitched into the rear headrest. What will we call . . . it? I frown and start the engine, turning in the driveway and making my way back toward The Manor. Girl or boy? If it’s a girl, she’ll look like her mother. Will she have her sass too? “God help me,” I breathe. If it’s a boy, he’ll look like me. I smile. God help the female population of his generation. I’ll take him to football. Teach him everything I know. Well, not everything. Most things. Boy or girl? I know it’s nice to be surprised, but I don’t think I can wait. Will Ava want to find out? She’s traditional, so I suppose not. Could I convince her? I laugh under my breath. Do bears shit in the woods?
I park Ava’s Range Rover next to John’s, grab my delivery and hop out, tossing her keys in my hand as I walk to my office. The piles of paperwork greet me. “Fucking hell,” I breathe, ripping the package open and scanning the book. It’s thick. Very thick. I puff out my cheeks and slip it into the top drawer of my desk, dragging my laptop over and staring at the screen like it can help me. Then before I know I’ve done it, the screen is filled with baby stores. I blink, stunned, and go for what I know, smiling when I find myself somewhere familiar. Harrods. My smile falls. Car seats, prams, cribs, sterilizers, baby carriers, monitors . . . “Organic nappies?” I blurt at the screen. Teats that are imitations of nipples? I scoff. “Never.” I get up close and personal with the screen and click through a few pages. The endless equipment blows my mind. I’ll call Zoe. She’ll make this a breeze.
“What are you doing?”
I reach for the lid of my laptop and snap it shut. “Nothing.”
John’s scowl is fierce as he reaches for my computer. I slowly pull it out of his way, swallowing, certain I look every shade of guilty. Fuck it.
“Open the laptop.”
“No.”
“Open the motherfucking laptop, motherfucker.”
I sneer and shove it toward him, resting back in my chair and fixing a filthy look on my oldest friend as he lifts the lid and turns the screen. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, lifting his shades and his eyes to me. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Baby stuff?” I ask. “Yes, it’s baby stuff, John.”
“And why are you looking at baby stuff?”
“Why do you think I would be looking at baby stuff?”
John’s always hidden his shock well. He’s struggling today. Lowering to the chair, his mouth open, his gold tooth glimmers. “I’m just trying to figure out if it’s possible for Ava to fall pregnant in the time you’ve been back together.”
“We got back together on Friday, John.” Although we hardly split up. “It’s Tuesday.”
“So your plan to trap her worked?”
“Why does everyone make it sound so immoral?”
“Because it is. And she’s okay with this, considering the circumstances?”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what happened yesterday to make Ava come round, but I’m grateful. “She’s happy.”
“She’s happy,” he mimics quietly.
“And me. I’m happy too.”
“I can tell.”
“And it also means I’m not shooting blanks.”
He rolls his eyes and rubs into his frown. “How far gone?”
“I don’t know. I need to sort out a scan.”
“Well . . . wait—”
“What?”
The map of lines across his head multiplies. “Is this why you’ve decided to talk to Owen Cutler?”
I look away, pulling open the drawer and getting my new pregnancy book out. “Doesn’t hurt to talk, right?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John breathes, eyeing my new book.
“No one can say I’m not committed, eh?” I fan the pages, grinning.
He laughs at the irony, a deep, baritone laugh with absolutely no humor. John remembers as well as I do the moment I learned Lauren was pregnant. Dread. I obviously wouldn’t have changed having Rosie for the world. But . . . had she not been born, she would never have been taken. And I wouldn’t have become a shell of a man. I shake my head and those thoughts away. Or I try to. I would have been a shell. Rosie saved me from myself for a while. Until I let her down. I’ve been letting her down ever since too. I wince and feel at my chest.