Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
"Mick! Put me down!" She’s protesting, her hands swatting at my shoulders, but she’s laughing too. Her laugh still hits me harder than a body check. I don't let go. I carry her out of the nursery, past the half-finished crib and the shelves of tiny clothes, and march straight for the living room sofa. I set her down on the cushions like she’s made of fine glass, even though I know she’s the toughest person I’ve ever met.
"You’re eight months pregnant," I growl, hovering over her with my hands on my hips. "What in the hell were you thinking? You can’t climb a ladder in your condition?" God. Sweat breaks rolls down my back at the thought of her slipping and falling.
She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the pillows and crossing her arms over the peak of her stomach. "I’m pregnant, Mick, not helpless." She looks up at me, those blue eyes bright and challenging, waiting for me to settle down.
I sink onto the edge of the cushions beside her, the adrenaline finally starting to drain away. I reach out, my palm landing naturally on the curve of her belly. It’s a habit now, a reflex. My hand is broad enough to cover nearly half of the space where our daughter is growing, and the heat of her skin through the fabric of her shirt calms the frantic thrumming in my chest.
"I don’t want anything to happen to you. Or her," I say staring into her eyes. She’s glowing, despite the swollen ankles and the way she has to shift every ten minutes to find a comfortable position. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and the realization of how much I love her hits me with the force of a physical blow. "You’re everything to me. Both of you. If you need something hung on a wall, you wait for me and I’ll do it. Just stay off of ladders, okay?"
Mia’s expression softens, the teasing light in her eyes fading into something deeper, more vulnerable. She reaches up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging gently. It’s the move that always brings me down to her level, the silent signal that the argument is over. "You’re such a caveman, McLinden. But I suppose it’s one of your better qualities." She pulls me closer, and I lean in, kissing her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips.
The kiss tastes like home. It tastes like the morning coffee we share and the whispered conversations at three a.m. when the baby is karate kicking her ribs.
“I’m your caveman.” I remind my wife as a sharp, distinct thump hits the underside of my palm. I freeze. Then another one. It’s a strong, rhythmic drumming, our daughter asserting her presence in the world before she’s even officially in it. My chest tightens, a lump forming in my throat that I can't quite swallow. I’ve won championships. I’ve held trophies over my head in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. None of it compares to the sensation of that kick against my hand.
"She’s active today," Mia whispers, her hand moving to cover mine. She tilts her head, studying my face with that uncanny ability she has to read exactly what’s happening under my skin. “I missed you today. Sorry for worrying you but I really thought I could hang the picture without any problem.”
“Please don’t climb any more ladders until this little one comes.” I pull her closer, tucking her head under my chin and pressing a kiss to her temple. “My heart can’t take the stress.” The penthouse windows offer a panoramic view of the sound, the water turning a deep, bruised purple as the sun begins to set, but I don't care about the view outside. I care about the evidence of the life we’ve created in this room. The scattered baby books, the framed photos of our Vegas wedding, the way her shoes look next to mine by the door.
“I promise.” Mia snuggles into my side. “I wouldn’t want to stress your elderly heart out.”
I lean back and give her a fake glare. “Elderly?”
“I mean you’re pushing forty and all.” My seven-year younger wife shrugs innocently.
“I’m thirty-eight. Not eighty.” I remind her.
“Close enough.” She teases as I pull her close and tickle her side. “Stop. Stop before I pee my pants.” My adorable wife begs. I sit back against the cushions and drag her across my lap.
“I’m the luckiest bastard in the world,” I murmur against her soft skin. The words come out rough, barely above a breath, but I mean every syllable down to my bones. “I love you, Mrs. McLinden.”
Mia shifts against me, the warm weight of her redistributing across my lap. Her fingers find my jaw, tracing the line of it slowly. “I love you too,” she whispers, her eyes finding mine in the dimming light.