Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I wet my lips before shifting my attention back to the stack of files. “Sorry. My mind is elsewhere.”
I give him a look as if to say get the fuck out of my head when he asks, “Is Macy okay?”
“Yeah.” I slouch back on the couch before running a hand over my head. “I think.”
As my eyes roam over the book I plucked from the shelf without Macy’s knowledge while we were getting groceries, I recall how white Macy’s cheeks went when flicking through it. I thought What to Expect When You’re Expecting was a good book to steer Macy toward the role she’ll be taking on within the next six weeks. Regan is fierce as fuck, but she’s also a woman who loathes the sight of blood, so when I remembered how she breezed through that book as if it were a graphic romance novel, I hid it under a loaf of bread and then acted clueless when Macy’s eyes zoomed in on it as the checkout clerk scanned and bagged it.
Macy’s drained face and wide eyes seconds before she announced she needed to use the bathroom have me second-guessing my decision.
Not thinking, I grab the book I’m referencing instead of the report Brandon forwarded to my tablet. Some pages are dog-eared, but none provide an immediate indication of Macy’s scared response.
“Have you read this yet?” I twist the book’s cover to show Brandon. Melody is due a couple of weeks after Macy, so I’m expecting Brandon to jerk up his chin. You can picture my shock when he does the opposite. “You should. Alex read it word for word.”
I snap my eyes up from a diagram of how the cervix dilates during the stages of labor when Brandon scrubs at his dark-rimmed eyes. “If you find anything of interest, pass it on, and I’ll thumb through those pages. I’m snowed under right now.”
“I’m not reading it.” You can’t miss the disgust in my voice.
Brandon arches his brow, wordlessly calling me out as a liar.
“I’m not. I am just striving to work out what made Macy’s face as white as a ghost while reading it. Excluding the redness her cheeks got when Jordan pissed her off, she maintained a normal complexion the rest of the day.”
“Jordan?” Brandon asks, lost.
I scoff, still angry about how that woman treated Macy. Jordan would never get out of Macy’s shadow even if they were the only two women left on the planet. “She was the salesclerk at the baby store we visited earlier today.” Brandon inhales sharply, but I’m so caught up in my irritation that I ignore his telltale sign of shock. “She was so rude to Macy. She looked down at her and gave her grief about being a single mother. It pissed me off so much that I almost wanted to pretend I’m not a federal agent.”
“People can be so judgmental. How did Macy handle it?”
“She tried to stay calm, but I could tell it was getting to her.” My voice softens as I recall how I stepped in to support her. “I pretended to be the father-to-be.” When Brandon brows shoot up high, stunned, I blurt out any excuse I can find. “I couldn’t stand the way Jordan was treating her, and I refused to watch Macy be belittled by a woman with less grace in her whole body than Macy has in her pinkie finger. Macy is an agent, a damn good agent, and she will be an even better mother. She just needs to ignore the naysayers…” And stop feeling guilty about living.
I’ve never met Kendall, but I can still confidently declare that she wouldn’t want Macy to live a miserable existence. As much as I hate to admit this, I know Cameron would want this for me too.
As assurances ring continuously in my head, I stare at the bathroom door before directing my attention back to Brandon. I feel guilty, though you’d never believe that for how fast I deliver my reply. “I’ll call you back.”
He winks, wordlessly approving of my decision, before he disconnects our call.
I drag my hand over my hair to flatten its spikes before I leave the couch and head to the bathroom. I only need a handful of steps to close the distance between us. That’s how compact this apartment is.
After a quick exhale, freeing a bit of the anxiety on my chest, I rack my knuckles on the beachy white wood door of the bathroom. My brows shoot up high when the voice that comes through the door isn’t weighed down with despair.
“Just a minute.” Three point five seconds later, the bathroom door flings open, and Macy flashes me a playful grin. “Sorry for hogging the only bathroom. I’m almost done.”
My eyes track her as she moves back to the vanity sink. I don’t speak. I can’t. I’m too busy taking in how smoking hot Macy looks out of her “work” attire. Concealer hides her tired bags but keeps her freckles in full view; her cheeks have regained the flush of color they achieved when we cooked and ate together hours ago, and she has painted her lips fire-engine red.