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)
“A dog?”
“It feels nice to have someone sit on the edge like this. Dogs do that, don't they?”
“Do you think I look like a dog?” he says with that teasing glint in his voice that makes me laugh.
“You know what I mean.” He pats the top of the blanket by my arse, effectively giving it a muted smack.
I smile, then sigh, and I’m on the cusp of crying because… I want him to stay.
He bends and kisses my forehead. “I told you—you need to trust me. Okay?”
I nod. “Maybe we can run away,” I whisper, already knowing it's not true, that it's not a possibility. It's not even something I really want to do.
“Run away,” he repeats. “Where would you go, if we could?” I love that he doesn't say we can't—just gives me the space to dream.
“I heard Germany is beautiful. And I do like pretzels.”
“What would you do there?” he asks. “Besides eat pretzels.”
“Go to one of those Christmas markets. The ones with the little wooden stalls and the mulled wine and the smell of cinnamon on everything.”
“You'd drag me around a Christmas market? You know I hate shopping.”
“Gleefully. You'd hate every second.”
“Probably,” he agrees, and he's smiling. I let myself believe it for a moment—the two of us, somewhere nobody knows our names, eating pretzels at a wooden stall in the cold.
“I loved a cold beer,” he says thoughtfully, “even if I don’t drink it anymore. You could drink mine for me.”
“That's a lie,” I tell him. “I swear to god, everyone who claims to like beer is lying. Same with matcha. Both taste like punishment.”
He laughs out loud. “You would say that.”
I sigh. “When do you have to go?”
“Don’t know. Just give me the morning, love, will you?”
“The morning,” I repeat, nodding.
I look at him for a long moment—those adorable glasses on the bridge of his nose, his scarred hands, and those eyes that would make any woman's knickers melt—and something in me settles. “And then? What about after the morning, Declan?”
He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I don't think I've seen before. “Right now, we'll take it day by day, won't we?”
I sigh and nod. “Aye.”
This time, when he glances at his phone, I can see he has a list of obstetric hematologists—names, hospitals, and estimated waiting times. He's been working on how to take care of me since before I got up, even before I was sick. He's been sitting in that chair in his boxers with those new glasses, researching the safest way forward for me and the baby.
Both of us know this morning has to end, but we make the most of it as he sits with me and we talk about doctors. He helps me into the kitchen, and we eat breakfast. Me—dry toast and a bit of egg. Him—everything I don't eat, a pile of more eggs, and three cups of coffee.
He works quietly, answering texts and emails. Then he finally sighs.
“I need to go,” he says. “I'm sorry.”
“There's nothing to apologize for. Just don’t kiss me until I’ve brushed my teeth first.”
“For fuck's sake,” he says, slapping my arse and dragging me over to him. He holds my chin in his hands the way he does and kisses me long and deep and slow. “I love you,” he murmurs in my ear. Warmth floods my chest, and with it an ache. He loves me. But is it enough?
“No matter what happens, Bridget, you need to remember that, won't you?”
I open my mouth to tell him the truth, that I love him back, that I love him more than anything, that I’ll never love anyone else like this ever again.
But I can’t. The words are clogged in my throat. I love him, but he’s engaged to another woman.
So I only nod. “Of course. I know.”
His phone vibrates with a text. I watch a shadow pass over his face. “What is it?”
“Work stuff. I need to manage this.”
He dresses in yesterday's clothes, the hood pulled over his face. I watch him from the kitchen and don't say what I'm thinking, which is that I'm already waiting for him to come back.
He catches me looking, and something moves across his face.
“Don't,” he says.
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that when I'm trying to leave because I won’t be able to.”
I say nothing. He leans down and kisses me once, brief and certain, and then he's gone.
He's back by two o'clock. I know it's him before I even open the door, by the sound of his knock, certain and unhurried, like he has every right to be here.
I didn't meet with Erin today, so I'm still in my ratty shorts and faded tee, my hair loose, with a cold cup of tea on the counter. I've been sitting at the table, looking at the names of the doctors he researched for me for two hours, but when he comes back in, I'm on my feet and at the door.