Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“And I’ll want to revisit that when I get you to twenty-three percent.”
“You drive a hard bargain, teacup.”
Is he impressed or amused as his mouth curls almost reluctantly? Whatever it is, the moniker falls directly into my lap, thrumming away down there. Sensations, so many of them. Thoughts and feelings and fears and gratitude, none of which I can afford to lift the lid on.
“Those are my terms.” I’m so glad my answer doesn’t betray my internal world. “Your money. No other clients. I work on behalf of you only.”
Matt leans across the table, holding out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Good.” My smaller hand meets his, excitement and pleasure flowing through my veins.
“Tell me something.” He puts his hand over mine, effectively trapping me. “Tell me anything.”
“We’re still playing that game?”
Until I know all your secrets, his eyes seem to say.
Not in this lifetime.
“Oh!” I press my free hand to my stomach before my attention snaps up. “The baby just moved!”
“Really?” His eyes wide, he drops my hand and rounds the table so fast. “This the first time?” he demands, dropping to his knee, his words full of wonder.
“I . . . yeah. I’ve had these kind of tiny butterfly sensations, but nothing like this,” I say, feeling a twinge that I haven’t shared this with him. But our kitchen encounter . . .
“Can I—can I feel?”
His tone is so sweet. I nod and swallow as he allows me to take his hand and press it where I felt that flurry.
A beat passes. Two. Three.
“Nothing.” He stares down at my stomach, his smile not quite holding.
“It’ll happen again—more and more,” I answer quickly, trying to reassure him.
“Course it will.” His expression turns soft. Then bright as his head jerks up. “I felt that!”
“Me too. It feels like a goldfish bumping the side of a plastic bag.”
“We’re not calling him David Swimmer!” The words bound out of him delightedly. “How about Flipper,” he says, staring down.
“It’s gender neutral, I guess.”
“Flipper, you and your gorgeous mommy just made my day.”
Chapter 33
Ryan
Twenty-nine weeks, and I have two million pounds in an investment account. I also have an office—a home office on the same floor as Matt’s—with a window overlooking the garden and a picture-perfect window seat.
The room wasn’t an office the day little Flip did her thing—that’s how we’re referring to the baby now. From me, it’s still “She’s moving—Flip is kicking—come quickly and feel!” And from Matt: “So strong, Flipper, my maneen—my little man. We’ll have you kicking conversions for Ireland in no time.”
Another game we’re still playing, but I digress.
The morning after Flip’s first flip, my office was a bedroom. By the end of that day, it looked like something out of an interiors magazine. In fact, an interior designer turned up that morning unannounced, carrying a half dozen concept boards, mood boards, and Lord knows what else.
We chatted, I made my choices in a daze, and then by the time Matt got home that evening, the contractors were already finished. My complaints fell on deaf ears, but my thanks were well received when I threw myself against him in a hug.
And he hugged me back, and his hug was solid. Fortifying. Like a power pack, recharging my world.
Working from home—though not my home—is pretty great. It’s warm and it’s comforting, and I can pop down and chat with Mary when she’s here. I have everything I need—software, hardware, a desk the size of a runway, and an office chair that looks like it belongs in a spaceship.
Got to take care of those back muscles. And I don’t mean by spontaneous orgasms.
The work isn’t taxing. It’s fun and exhilarating—like playing the slots. Sometimes frustrating, but that’s okay because I love it. And it means I have something else to concentrate on and something else to talk about when Matt is home.
“They always leave. Did I not teach you anything, girl?”
I press my hand to my stomach as though to protect my baby. Protect her from who, though? My mother is dead.
Who’s gonna protect her from you?
My heart begins to pound, and I practically stumble like a drunk to the pretty window seat. This is not happening now, I recite silently as I drop to the cushions. I made my peace with my past, with my decisions. I stepped away from all that rage, all that hate . . .
I put aside my yearning and my mother want. I made peace with the reality she couldn’t be that for me.
Merciless. The word echoes in my head.
How could she expect mercy when she had so little for me?
I glance out the window, the aged glass distorting the view of the garden ever so slightly. Spring sunshine spills over a lawn recovering from a cold winter. Birds hop around a pond; a willow’s branches seem to offer a hug to the ground. Inside the room, I wish there was someone to hug me.