Chapter 13
THE WORST PROPOSAL
DOMINIC
Pregnant.
The word ricochets through me like a bullet.
I can still hear Enya saying it—soft, shaky, furious. I can still see the way her hand drifted toward her belly even while she glared at me like I was the last person on earth she wanted near her.
My baby.
Our baby.
A bright light punches through the fog I’ve been living in.
Finally, finally, the fucking universe is giving me a break.
I can’t stop beaming. “You’re pregnant.” I hug her.
She draws away so she can see my face. “You’re not upset?”
“Upset? Why the hell would I be upset? No. This is…. Enya, we’re going to be parents.”
She licks her lips. Nods.
“Let’s get married?”
Her eyebrows shoot way up. She takes two full steps away from me.
“Yes, let’s get married,” I say again because nothing has felt this right in my life.
Her jaw drops. “Go fuck yourself.”
Okay, so, not the reaction I hoped for. Also, maybe I shouldn’t have just sprung it on her. Maybe I should’ve bought a ring and done the going on one knee thing.
In my defense, I’m a bit shell-shocked to find out I’m going to be a father.
“Enya—”
“No.” She stabs a finger at my torso. “Absolutely not.” Jab. “Not after everything you did.” Jab. “Not because I’m pregnant.” Jab. “Not because you suddenly want to play house.”
“I’m not playing—”
“You used me,” she talks over me. “You lied to me. You made me fall in love with you for a mission. A mission, Nick. And now you want to marry me because your sperm got ambitious?”
I wince. “That’s not—okay, yes, this is fast, but—”
“Fast?” She spits out a laugh, all edge and no warmth. “This isn’t fast. This is delusional.”
“Enya.” I step closer, even though she looks furious enough to knee me in the nuts. “I’m serious. I’ve never been more serious.”
“I don’t care.” She folds her arms, holding herself. “You don’t get to fix this with a proposal.”
“I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to build…us.”
She stares at me like she wants to believe me, but refuses to be that stupid again. “You can’t just decide that. Trust doesn’t grow back overnight.”
“I know.” My voice softens. “But I can try. Every day, for as long as it takes.”
She shakes her head. “Stop. Just stop. Look…it sounds like you want this baby.”
“I do.”
“Fine, then we’ll co-parent and—”
“I want you and the baby.”
“And I want to have Angelina Jolie’s lips,” she snarks. “We can’t all have what we want.”
I narrow my eyes and study her face. “Why would you want her lips? Baby, your lips are gorgeous and—”
“Ah!” she cries out. Loudly. So loudly that I retreat. I’ve never seen this woman—this gentle, soft woman—lose it like this. It’s incredible to see…like a car crash.
“It’s the hormones, isn’t it?” As soon as the words are out, I know I fucked up. She picks up the bouquet of dahlias I set on the counter, and slams them into my chest once and then twice and then again. Petals and leaves scatter all over the place.
“Baby, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I grasp her wrists to hold her still, no force, just defense. “You want to hit me, you can do that, but after you’ve had the baby, and when you don’t look pale after throwing up.”
I sniff. “Speaking of which, we need to get you to a hospital, and I need to clean up here. It’s starting to smell.”
“Nick, I swear to you, if you don’t leave my shop right now, I’m going to commit murder.”
She doesn’t mean it. Not my sweet Enya. But then I see her look at her shears, and I glance at her. No way. No…way.
She picks up the sharp scissors. “Get out.”
I put both my hands up, mostly because I don’t want her to hurt herself. “I’m going. I’ll be back.”
She holds the shears like a weapon and advances on me. I step away.
“I’m leaving, but I’ll be back with something to drink. You need to hydrate.”
“Nick, get the fuck out!” she screams.
Worried that she’s going to pop a blood vessel, I finally do as she asks.