Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Holy fucking—
“Are you… Bridget, are you pregnant?”
Chapter Nineteen
BRIDGET
I don't know when I planned on telling him, but it was definitely not now, definitely not today, definitely not like this.
“I can’t—I don’t—”
I don’t even know what to say. He looks as if he can’t quite comprehend.
God above, I know the feeling.
I move to put myself between him and the damning papers and vitamins, but he's already seen it. Already knows.
“Pregnant,” he whispers. His eyes go soft in a way I wasn't prepared for. “Bridget.”
“I swear to god, Declan McCarthy, if you accuse me of being pregnant by anybody else—if you think for one single second that this is anybody's but yours. If you even open your mouth to suggest—” Then my voice breaks off, and my chin wobbles because I'm pregnant with Declan’s baby, and now he knows, and I have absolutely no idea what happens next.
He falls to his knees.
His knees. Right there on the ground in front of me. He throws his arms around me and buries his face against me. I feel his shoulders shudder as my heart does something strange and unsteady because I think—I think Declan might be crying?
I anchor my fingers in his hair and hold him there as fresh tears slide down my own cheeks because I wasn't ready for this either. I wasn't ready for him to be like this.
“A baby,” he says, muffled against me. Not a question. Just the words, as if he needs to hear them out loud to make them real. “Yours. Ours.”
“It was that night,” I say softly.
He lifts his head. “My god.” He shakes it slowly, looking up at me, and his eyes are watery. I’ve never seen him like this. I put my hand on his cheek. “That's why you've been sick.”
I nod, my own voice husky and a bit wobbly. “Aye. That's why I was sick.”
“Are you alright now?” His voice is raw in a way I've never heard from him. Declan, who is always composed, who is always performing some version of fine—there's nothing performative about this. “How are you feeling? Are there risks? Are you—god, Bridget, how much did you go through alone?”
“I’m good,” I whisper, holding him to reassure him and myself at the same time. “I’m alright. According to the doctor, I’m excellent.”
He’s been gentle with me, but this is something else entirely. This is… undone. This is Declan McCarthy on his knees on the ground, and I'm sniffling in earnest now because somehow, deep down, I knew he would react just like this.
“When did you find out?” He frames my still-flat belly with his hands, leaning in to kiss the center. I melt right there. My throat goes all tight, and my nose tingles.
“When you were in the hospital.” I gesture to the paper still lying on the ground. “That's the proof of it.”
He stands, slowly, like a man making sure of his legs. Then his hands are framing my face, and he's kissing me, properly, like a man who has stopped fighting what he’s wanted—I’ve missed this so much.
I taste the salt of my own tears between us. When he pulls back, his forehead drops to mine.
“A baby, Bridget.” He breathes it more than says it. “How? I… I thought you were on birth control.”
“I was,” I say into his chest. “Dr. Rosenberg thinks it was the immunosuppressant I was on after remission? It interferes with birth control. He said he should have flagged it more clearly.” A beat passes. “He felt terrible about it. I told him it wasn't his fault.” I manage something almost like a laugh. “I'm not sure either of us believed me.”
“Have you told anyone yet?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look at me. His hands haven't left my face. “Who knows?”
“Me, you, and Dr. Rosenberg.” I shake my head. “No one else. He didn’t even have a nurse in the room because he knew the need for privacy.”
He's silent for a moment. “I don't know what to say,” he says finally. “A baby. A baby that could look like you.”
Oh, Declan.
My hands rest on his wrists. “You don't have to say anything right now,” I tell him. And then, because I can't help myself, “And if you move to America—”
“What? Move to America?” He says it like I've suggested something genuinely absurd. His hands drop to my shoulders.
He lowers his voice when I meet his eyes. “Woman. You are pregnant with my baby. My child. Do you really think I’m the kind of man who walks away from his child?”
Well, when he puts it that way, I feel a little guilty.
“But you’re… engaged to be married.” I hate even saying the words.
He stares at me, his brows knitting.
“Jesus, Bridge,” he says. “I know. But I am absolutely not moving to America.” A car horn beeps in the distance, and nearby, a child laughs out loud, and someone hails a taxi. Around us, the world keeps turning as it always has, while our personal world has been tipped on its axis.