Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Though I wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably, I couldn’t stop crying during the short ride home.
Without a word, Kane got out of the car, plucked me up from my seat then carried me inside.
“Kane,” I hissed through my tears. “That’s so dramatic. I can walk. I’m too heavy.”
“You can walk,” he agreed, unlocking the door. “And you’re not too heavy. I want to carry you, so I’m going to.”
And he did. All the way up the stairs. Then he peeled off my clothes and got us both into the shower. Still, I didn’t stop crying. Not when we got out and he dried me off, peppering my body with kisses. Not when he used the oil all over my body, gingerly massaging out the kinks. Not even when we curled up in bed together, where I was warm and safe.
I didn’t realize I had that much sorrow in my body.
It was off-putting.
Not to Kane, though.
He just held on.
Twenty
I slept hard that night, riding an adrenaline crash, I guessed. Yesterday had utterly exhausted me.
Kane had held me all night long. I had foggy recollections of jolting awake, his hands rubbing my stomach, my back, his voice in my ear. “You’re safe, Chef. Baby girl is moving.”
A large kick confirmed that, the relief of her movement coupled with Kane's warmth easing me back to sleep.
Kane had gotten up at some point because I woke in bed alone. My head was pounding, mouth dry, and I felt as if I’d been hit by a train.
I glanced to the bedside table where a large glass of water was sitting. I wrenched myself up to down it. Then I waited for my stomach to settle. I’d been so thirsty; I’d forgotten about the way my stomach lurched if I drank water on an empty stomach. A holdover from the first trimester still going strong.
I blinked at the time on my phone.
It was after eleven.
I’d slept almost twelve hours.
Never in my life had I slept in till almost noon, not even in my teenage years.
“Good morning to you too,” I murmured to the soccer player in my stomach, obviously making up for the sleepy day yesterday.
I quickly made my way to the bathroom, since that kick jabbed right in my full bladder. Once that was done, I splashed water on my face, squinting at my reflection. I expected to look like a fright after hours upon hours of crying, but aside from the redness around my eyes, I looked fine. Good actually. My face had color and my eyes were bright, a more vibrant green than they’d been in months. My messy hair looked shiny.
It wasn’t superficial, though; it was like a weight had been lifted off me. I didn’t understand when Kiera had told me a good cry was almost better than a facial for the skin and a $700 an hour therapist for the soul.
I got it now.
But it might not have been the cry. It was more than likely the man I could hear downstairs.
I froze as I heard the voice of someone else.
Voices.
I frowned, quickly brushing my teeth and throwing sweats on.
I probably should’ve put on something else, but it was my house, and I still felt half asleep. And panicked. What if it were Victoria? Here to say there had been a mistake, and they were locking Kane up again? My fear was a physical thing, clawing at my chest.
The journey down the stairs took longer and longer these days, and I winced at the pain in my hips as I descended.
Voices.
I definitely heard voices.
It wouldn’t be Kiera. She was in Bora Bora on some influencer trip. She was scheduled to come on my due date.
There was no one else who could’ve been in my house at eleven in the morning without an invitation.
When I walked into the kitchen, I blinked to make sure I was seeing straight. The woman in the kitchen was in her early 60s, her long hair fully gray and braided loosely. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt, a thick belt accentuating her hourglass figure. Her skin was lined from laughter, tanned from years tending to her garden. She looked ten years younger than she actually was.
A soft jangling sounded in the air when she moved her hands, coming from the many bracelets she always wore. A walking wind chime.
“Mom?” I rubbed sleep from my eyes. “What are you doing here?”
It was still a possibility that I was dreaming. That made more sense than my mother’s presence.
“What am I doing here?” she asked, her tone bordering on shrill. Or maybe any tone would seem shrill when I was shaking off sleep, battling the pain in my hips and trying to dislodge a baby’s leg from my ribs.
She put down the coffee that Kane had apparently made for her since he was standing in front of the coffee machine with a mug of his own.