Chapter 15 Not Leaving
NOT LEAVING
DOMINIC
“You okay?” I ask as soon as Enya steps out of the restaurant.
I knew she was there to see Maggie, and I know no one is going to give me credit, but it’s due because I didn't go in and sit at their table to make sure Maggie didn’t upset Enya.
I deserve a fucking medal for that restraint.
Shock ripples through her expression. “What are you doing here?”
I hand her a bottle of water. “Making sure you’re okay.”
She looks at the water and then at me. “Are you stalking me?”
“Stalking is such a negative word, don’t you think? I’m…keeping an eye on you.”
“Nick—”
“Come on, let’s get you back to Lucille’s.”
Since she took an Uber here, I drive her back. She doesn’t talk to me the entire way, but she does empty the whole water bottle.
The past weeks have been a pleasure and a pain. I’ve missed her, and being around her soothes me. It also hurts because most of the time she looks at me like I’m the worst person on the planet.
“I think you should take a nap,” I suggest when we get to her shop.
“I think you should mind your own business,” she retorts.
“Enya, baby, come on. I’ll take care of Lucille’s.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Really? And when someone comes in asking for a bouquet of peonies, what will you do?”
I shrug. “I’ll open YouTube. You can learn pretty much anything there.”
The bell chimes as a woman comes in. She’s not a regular. She looks from Enya to me and back to her. “Ah…are you open?”
I say, “No,” at the same time that Enya says, “Yes.”
Enya sighs and gestures toward the counter. “We’re open,” she tells the woman, then shoots me a warning look. “Ignore him.”
The woman approaches, already frowning. “I need a bouquet. Elegant, but not boring. Seasonal, but not obvious. Something that says I’m happy you’re here without gushing.”
What the fuck? Who talks like this?
Enya bites back a smile.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask.
The woman blinks, clearly surprised that I’m asking the question. “A dinner party. Very important people.”
“Of course, they are,” I murmur. I glance at Enya. “Sit.”
“I’m not—”
“Sit,” I repeat, more gently this time. “I’ve got this.”
She hesitates, then perches on the stool behind the counter, arms crossed, clearly prepared to enjoy watching me screw it up.
I move to the buckets, scanning.
The thing is, I’ve been spending my evenings watching YouTube videos of florists putting together bouquets so I can help Enya, even if she doesn’t want my help. But this will be the first time I actually do it.
Damn it! I was less nervous when I was captured by rebel forces in Nigeria.
I pull out cream garden roses, ranunculus, and eucalyptus for texture—YouTube’s words, not mine. I add blush astilbe, newly discovered, then step back to check the balance. I now have opinions about balance for a flower bouquet.
The woman watches, intrigued despite herself.
“You don’t look like a florist,” she says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “But the mother of my child is and I watch her…a lot.”
The woman puts a hand to her heart and sighs. “Aww.”
A frustrated sound rumbles out of Enya. “Ugh.”
I trim the stems, cutting too short on the first pass and swearing under my breath when one of the ranunculus heads droops in protest.
I discard it, start again.
I angle the roses, rotate the bouquet, then stop when the whole thing feels wrong—too tight, too stiff. I loosen my grip, yank one stem free, and snap it clean by accident.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Enya doesn’t say a word. She just watches.
I try again, slower this time. I pay attention to balance, to negative space, to how the eucalyptus softens the edges.
I rotate the bouquet in my hands, adjusting until it settles into itself instead of fighting me.
When I wrap it in kraft paper, I fold one edge crooked, flatten it, and redo it. The twine slips, and the whole thing nearly collapses. I tighten it carefully on the second pass, knotting it twice, like it might make a break for it if I don’t.
It’s not perfect. A professional would spot the flaws—the stem that’s a half-inch too long, the bloom that’s turned the wrong way. But who gives a shit? It’s done, and the woman is too charmed by my devotion to my baby mama to make a fuss.
I set it on the counter. “Elegant. Seasonal. Welcoming without gushing.”
Whatever the fuck that means!
The woman nods, impressed despite herself. “Very nice, thank you.” She looks pointedly at Enya’s belly and then at me. “You’re such a cute couple.”
“We’re not—” Enya starts, but I speak over her, “Thank you. She makes us look good.”
The woman pays and leaves with a final, curious glance over her shoulder.
Silence fills the shop.
Enya glares at the mess I left behind on the counter, and then at me.
“You’ve been taking florist classes behind my back?”
“YouTube videos,” I admit.
That earns me a genuine smile, then just like that, she puts a hand to her belly.
“What?” I am instantly alert. Something is wrong.
Her shoulders hunch. She’s suddenly gone pale.
She tries to stand, sways. My stomach drops.
“Baby.” My hands are shaking as I hold her up.
Her eyes flutter, unfocused. “I’m fine.”
She is absolutely not fine.
“Sit down.”
“I said I’m—” She doesn’t finish. She fucking collapses.
I catch her before she hits the floor, scooping her up. Her skin is hot. Clammy. She’s breathing, but too fast.
“Enya! Enya, look at me.”
Her eyelids flutter. “Just tired….”
“Fuck this. We’re going to the hospital.” I pick her up and walk out the door. My car is parked on the street, and I manage to beep it open with the keys in my pocket.
Her head lolls against my shoulder. “I don’t want—”
“Too bad,” I murmur, fear scraping down my spine.
It takes me fifteen interminable minutes to get to the ED at GWU, the George Washington University Hospital.
They take her immediately while I pace the hallway like a criminal waiting for sentencing.
When they finally lead me to her, she’s propped up on the bed, sipping water through a straw. She looks embarrassed and annoyed—and sweeter than ever.
The doctor is harried in the way only ED doctors are, already halfway through his day and mentally three patients ahead. He glances at her chart, then at me.
“Given the fainting episode,” he says briskly, “we’ll do a quick ultrasound. Just to be safe. But we listened to the heartbeat, and we don’t think there’s a problem.”
Enya’s eyes flick to mine. I smile at her, even though my pulse is already hammering. I missed the first ultrasound at twelve weeks. Cass went with her. Enya didn’t tell me—it was still too soon, and I was still paying for what I’d done. So, this is a gift.
“The gel will be cold,” the doctor warns her.
I take her hand in mine as the screen flickers to life.
Then—
A heartbeat.
Fast. Steady. Perfect.
The sound fills the room and my soul. I grip her hand because I need something solid to keep me upright, because my world has tilted, and she’s the only thing holding me to it.
“That’s your baby,” the doctor announces.
Enya turns to me. “Isn’t that the best sound in the world?”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. “Yes. The very best.”
For once, there’s no wariness in her expression. No armor. She’s glowing—soft, awed, hopeful in a way that is sacred.
And I fall in love with her all over again.
After the doctor leaves, warning us about rest, proper nutrition, and hydration, Enya’s armor returns.
“I’m fine,” she mutters.
“You fainted,” I remind her.
“And the doctor just said everything is A-okay.”
I raise a brow. “You fainted,” I repeated. “You fell into my arms. Unconscious.”
She scowls. “I was just tired.”
“Enya.” I sit by her, take her hand in mine. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She looks anywhere but at me. “You don’t have to be here.”
“I love you. You’re having my baby. Where the hell else do you think I’d be?” I demand, sudden anger surging through me.
“I don’t care, just not here,” she argues. “Look, you can…you know, play daddy after the baby is born, and after the DNA test.”
My mind freezes for a beat. “DNA test?”
She lifts her chin. “Yes.”
Fury crashes over me. “You think I wouldn’t claim this baby?”
“I think….” She swallows, aware that my mood has shifted. “That people walk away. And I’m not setting myself—or this child—up for heartbreak.”
My chest draws tight, like barbed wire is tightly coiled around me.
I count to ten, and then twenty because I want to rage, break something. “I’m not people. And I’m not walking.”
“You walked before.”
Fuck me! She has a point. And just like that, my anger vanishes. “That was the job, baby.”
“This is my life.”
I bring her hand to my mouth, kiss her knuckles. “Then let me be part of it.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know, and that’s not what I’m offering.” I squeeze her hand. “Let me love you, let me care for all three of us.”
Her eyes soften for half a second—just long enough for warmth, for hope to flicker inside me—before she steels herself again.
She pushes me away, and places her hands on top of each other on her belly. “I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you hovering.”
“Noted.”
She glares. “I mean it, Nick.”
“I know you mean it.”
The nurse comes in then. She finishes her checks—blood pressure, pulse, a gentle prod at Enya’s belly—and gives us a small, no-nonsense smile.
“It looks like dehydration and stress,” she tells us, echoing what the doctor already said. “Her blood pressure dipped, but it’s already coming back up. Pregnancy amplifies everything.”
She glances at Enya. “More fluids. Real meals. Less trying to do everything yourself.” Then she looks at me. “She doesn’t need to stay overnight as long as someone’s with her at home. Just in case.”
“You’re not staying at my place,” Enya exclaims as soon as the nurse leaves.
“Then you can stay at mine.”
“Nick!”
“Your choice.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and then her shoulders slump, only a little. “Fine! But you’re sleeping on the sofa.”
“That’s not a sofa, it’s a piece of lumpy vintage,” I protest. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if needed.
“Take it or leave.”
“Taking it.”
First the sofa and then her bed, and ultimately, her soul. I’m on my way.
When you have a mountain to climb, as I do with winning Enya back, you have to appreciate the small victories.