Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I just want her.
Except I know that pushing Romy too hard, acting like the ruthless businessman in the boardroom, wouldn’t work on her. It wouldn’t even scare her away. She’d go toe to toe with me and probably kick me in the balls to even the score. I look at the empty glass in my hand. That’s three now, and there’s no way I’m stopping anytime soon.
“Find out what they know,” I say, gesturing for Dante to pour me another. “I don’t care what you have to do. I need to know she’s okay. In the meantime, I’m getting hammered. If one of you don’t mind calling my driver in an hour or so, I’d be much obliged.”
“We’ll see what we can dig up, Vik. Hang in there.” Dom nods slowly.
“I’ve still got a few things to wrap up in the office. If you want to head out, I’ll call Sheffield when he’s ready to leave,” Nolan tells the room.
“I’m done. Got nothing better to do. Go do your thing. I’ll pour him more vodka, then pour him into the car. I draw the line at carrying your drunk ass to bed, though.” Dante pours another heavy splash of vodka, and I immediately lift it to my lips, knocking it back with the intention of drowning out my thoughts, of wondering where Romy is and what she’s doing.
CHAPTER THREE
romy
In my twenties, there would be a completely different reason for the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl being my closest companion as of late. Now, I’m here because there’s a little being inside me who can’t stand for me to have a midday meal. I sit on the bathroom floor, my knees pulled tightly to my chest, forehead resting against the cool rim as a wave of nausea rolls through me. My entire body trembles from the exertion, it’s enough to make me cry.
Whoever came up with the term morning sickness is a liar and deserves a swift kick in their nether regions. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks waiting for the proverbial afternoon fog to lift, expecting to feel human by the time three o’clock rolls around. Except my body has written its own script, it didn’t give a damn about my work hours, Zoom or in-person meetings, or the fact that I’m starving yet the thought of food sends me into a revolt that rivals a thousand and one hangovers.
“Stupid, misleading medical terminology,” I mutter into the empty bathroom, my voice a raspy whisper. The digital clock on the counter tells me I need to get a move on or I’m going to be late to my appointment with Harbor View. Thankfully, they called earlier this morning and asked if they could push the time back by an hour. When I made the appointment, my afternoon sickness hadn’t reared its ugly head. Now that it has, Tracy calling me truly saved me from doing this in the office.
“Ugh.” Still, I can’t be late, yet the residual nausea is trying to keep me down. I can’t let my temperamental stomach lock me inside my apartment again. I haul myself up off the tile floor, my legs feeling like jelly, but I force them to move. I go through the motions of rinsing my mouth out with cold water, then brushing my teeth for the third time today. When I’m through, the taste of mint finally masking the bitterness, I splash some cold water on my face before staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Wow, I look pale. The shadow-bruised skin beneath my eyes is all too telling. My usual vibrant complexion is muted. I look like a ghost of the girl who used to breeze her way through the day without a care in the world. Makeup is definitely going to be my friend today. I dab concealer beneath my eyes, plotting it in, swipe some blush on my cheeks, and pull my hair up in a cute top knot of a bun. I trade my sweatpants for a pair of loose, comfortable linen pants that I pair with a soft knit top. I grab my purse, small notebook where I jotted down all of my frantic, probably ridiculous questions for my doctor inside.
“I can do this,” I tell myself then take a deep breath, shove my feet in a pair of slides, slip my phone in my pocket, grab a light denim jacket, and walk out. After locking the door, I head down the hall to the elevator. The doors open up entirely too soon for my liking. Even the ride down has my stomach churning, whether it’s from the nerves over my appointment or the remnants of afternoon sickness, I have no idea. What I do know is when the elevator doors slide open and I walk across the lobby of my building, I’m feeling relatively steady. It must be the breathing techniques I read about and used on the way down here. I push through the heavy glass door to exit the building and step out in the warm afternoon air.