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)
“Urhh . . . yes, Mr. Ward,” he replies, his astonishing waiter brain probably pulling the fact that Ava likes her steak medium from among all the other things he remembers about various clients he serves. “Salad and new potatoes?”
“Yes, just make sure one steak is thoroughly cooked.”
Mario is back with our bottled water, looking as struck as poor Pete. If Ava wasn’t here, I’d tell them our news, give them some context, but she is so I won’t. Right now, they’ll just have to deal with my uncharacteristically demanding self.
I save Mario the task and pour Ava some water, feeling her eyes still on my profile. But she’s quiet. Accepting? Wait . . . “Is there egg in that salad dressing?” I ask Pete.
“I’m not sure. Should I check?”
“Yes, if there is, leave the salad with the well-cooked steak undressed.”
“Okay, Mr. Ward.”
I nod and mentally scan back through that endless list of foods to be wary of during pregnancy. Wait, coffee. Did I see coffee on the list? Jesus, I had coffee delivered to her office this morning. I must check about coffee. And cheese. Was it soft cheese or hard? Blue or Swiss? I groan, the pressure in my head getting too much.
“If you don’t go to that kitchen, change my order, and get me a glass of wine, I’m one step closer to moving in with my parents for the rest of this pregnancy.” She speaks so calmly, staring at the optics above the bar. I blink at her, startled. Is she for real? “You’re not trampling my diet, Ward.”
Wanna bet? I understand that this is all a bit of a shock—the pregnancy and all—and she’s still trying to get her head around it, blah, blah, blah, but anything, and I mean anything, that puts her or our baby at risk is off the menu. Literally. “You’ve already gotten yourself pissed while you were pregnant,” I hiss quietly, that fact—and grievance—finally falling out of my mouth. And I can tell it stings her.
“I was mad with you.”
She was mad with me? A cop-out. “So you thought you would take it out on my baby?”
“You keep saying my baby. It’s ours.”
“That’s what I meant,” I grate.
“You’re not worried about me, then?” she asks, her frown small but telling. What? “It’s not my safety anymore?”
I’m stunned. Whenever have I given her any hint that her safety isn’t at the top of my priority list? I can’t deal with this kind of unreasonableness. She infuriates me. And we’ve talked about this. I told her, plain as day, eased her underlying fear that I might want a baby more than I want her. I’m about to state a bombardment of facts that will squash Ava’s grievance when I catch the table of women nearby—Natasha included—looking this way. Fucking hell, what did they hear? Do I need to ask? Their faces are an irritating shade of shock.
But . . . do I give a single shit? No.
Back to my wife.
My unreasonable, stubborn wife.
“I . . .” Fuck it, I did say my. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And how the hell is this discussion going to help either of us? God damn it. I’m guessing controlling meal choices is past Ava’s limit of acceptable levels of smothering. But she absolutely does need to read up on a few things. She doesn’t want wine. She just doesn’t want me to tell her that she can’t have it. And, actually, I fucking didn’t.
I blink as Ava stares at me, her eyes clouded with emotion—frustration, hurt, disbelief. She’s a grown woman, I get that. She’s also smart. I’m playing this completely wrong. “Fucking hell.” My hands go into my hair and pull, maybe to try and yank some reason out of me. When will I learn that my wife doesn’t do well being dictated to. Outside the bedroom, at least. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I mean it, Jesse,” she goes on, like I haven’t just mentally beaten myself up enough. I heard her. I hear her. And I see her remorse for doing what she did, even if she’s not outwardly apologizing. I don’t want to argue. I want to put that in the past and move forward. I face her, take her drink, and hold her hands tightly. “I’m sorry.”
“You are?” Her eyes widen.
“I am. I’m sorry.” We need to figure out a way to navigate this pregnancy together as a team, otherwise I’ll be certified officially crazy by the time this baby arrives. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
She laughs, and despite it being a sweet, comforting sound, I’m quite injured. This is no joke. “Jesse,” she sighs. “This is hard enough to cope with, without dealing with an enhanced control freak. It’s not something I planned or even considered.” No shit. And enhanced? “I don’t need you on my case, analyzing every move I make, monitoring everything that passes my lips. Please don’t make this tougher than it already is.” She gets up and moves into my chest. She thinks I need comforting. I do. “I want my baby to have a daddy,” she whispers, smiling at my forlorn pout. “Please try to reduce the risk of a stress-induced heart attack by chilling out a little.”