Chapter 20 #2
Caroline leans over the bed and hugs Angie. “I really am so very happy for you. Please let us know if you need anything at all.”
“I will. Thank you for coming.”
Shawn and Caroline head out first, and Mama pulls me to the side to talk discreetly while Angie updates her staff about the new developments.
“I had similar symptoms when I was pregnant with Jaxon. I don’t want her staying alone in that house, Griffin. Anything could happen to her or the baby. She’s lost some weight, and she’s so pale.”
Her concern warms my heart. I wrap my arm around her for a brief hug. “I know, Mama. I’m gonna take care of them both.”
She pulls back and pats my cheek. “I’m proud of you, my sweet boy. You’re going to be a wonderful father.”
Doctor Patel returns, prompting Mama to take her leave. She sets down the clipboard and checks Angie’s vitals. “Feeling any better since this morning?”
Angie nods. “I almost feel like a real person again.”
“Good. That means the vitamins and fluids are doing their job,” she replies. “I’d like to keep you here for a couple of days for observation. Geriatric pregnancies can take on an inherently higher risk.”
Shock overtakes Angie’s features as she presses a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. I think I misheard. Did you just say geriatric?”
Doctor Patel laughs. It’s obvious this isn’t the first time she’s been questioned about the terminology. “It’s just the technical term for anyone pregnant over the age of thirty-five.”
“Who decided that was a good idea?” Angie asks. Her eyes narrow, and she balls up her fist. “Give me a name. I just wanna talk.”
I cough to hide my laughter, and Angie turns that glare on me. I’m never gonna hear the end of this.
Angelina
I spent two days in the hospital for severe dehydration, and Griffin stayed by my side the entire time. It’s a small consolation. Given my new geriatric designation, I’m less reluctant to let Griffin take care of me. These old bones are tired.
I’m being dramatic, obviously, but I’m still not over the way Doctor Patel casually dropped the G-word. I’m a thriving thirty-six-year-old woman, and while I might be closer to perimenopause than puberty, I’m not there yet.
It’s nice to finally be home, but the nausea is still an ever-present threat, and I haven’t had a real meal in days, subsisting on saltines, broth, oatmeal, and toast. I would kill for a BLT with avocado.
There’s a small mom-and-pop bakery in Denver where I used to get the best sourdough.
I have yet to find anything even remotely close in Oak Ridge. I’d sell feet pics for one bite.
Hm. Is this my first pregnancy craving? That has to be a good sign, right?
I glance across the sofa at my self-proclaimed baby daddy and Vegas-ordained husband. “You can go home now. I can take care of myself.”
The couch shifts as he sets my right foot down and starts massaging the other. “You could pass out again.”
I scoff. “I didn’t pass out. I stumbled.”
“That’s not any better.”
“Griff.”
“I’m staying.” His tone brooks no argument as his thumbs dig into my foot in just the right spot. I let out an involuntary moan. He’s playing me like a fiddle, and I’m gonna let him. It feels too good to fight it.
As his hands trail up my calf, my phone chimes with an incoming text message. My stomach lurches, but it’s not the illness this time.
Tyler: I’m moving on. I think it’s best if we have a clean slate. Don’t put me on the birth certificate. I’ll sign whatever paperwork you need so you know I’m not coming after you or the baby.
The words cut me to the quick. I blink rapidly to dull the stinging pain, and my chin quivers as I fight against the overwhelming anger rising inside of me. I will not cry. But then the anger gives way to grief, and my strength falters.
I stopped loving Tyler the moment he walked away from me with no explanation, but it doesn’t change our history. It doesn’t erase the three years I devoted to our relationship.
Clean slate.
It’s not that simple for me. Tyler gets to walk away without consequence, and I’m left to raise our child on my own.
I was deceived—made to believe he was a good man who wanted a life and a family with me. All of it was right there at his fingertips, and he chose to turn his back on us at the first opportunity. I can’t forgive that, but he’s not asking me to.
Griffin’s holding me. When did that happen?
His lips brush my temple. “What’s wrong, Angel?”
“It’s over.” I let out a humorless laugh. “Really fucking over.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “It’s really bad.”
I pull back and stare at him indignantly. “What does that mean?”
A faint grin pulls at his lips as his brows draw up. Light catches on the gold flecks that rim his irises, and my fickle heart betrays me. I hate how gorgeous he is.
“You, my beautiful wife, have a tendency to laugh when you’re hurting.”
Maybe so, but I hate that he’s noticed that particular detail about me. When I try to push him away, he holds steady.
“I do not.”
Even my conscience is calling me a liar.
“You do.” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “Tell me what happened.”
“Tyler wants to sign away his rights to the baby.”
His expression flickers between surprise and something else I can’t quite put my finger on before he steels himself again. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“No. Yes. God, I don’t know.” My shoulders slump, and I let out a resigned sigh. “It hurts. Not for me, exactly, but for the baby. I love them so much already. I don’t know how I’ll explain this someday. What happens when they ask about their father?”
“That’s a long way away. That baby has you, and even if that’s all they have, it would be more than enough. But they have me, too. When he asks, we’ll sit down as a family and have an honest conversation.”
As a family.
I search his face for some sign of deceit, but all I see is raw honesty.
I’ve done my best to keep him at arm’s length, but he’s making it impossible.
What would it be like to just… give in? To finally stop resisting the pull and leave our history in the past, where it belongs?
He didn’t intentionally hurt me back then, and if we hadn’t been two stubborn idiots, we might still be together now.
He fingers a strand of my hair near my temple, and his eyes catch the light again.
No one’s ever looked at me the way Griffin does. It’s heady and intoxicating.
But I want more than just his eyes on me.
“Kiss me,” I murmur.
That’s all the permission he needs. His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as his mouth slants over mine.
It’s soft at first, gentle and reverent in a way I haven’t felt in a long time—maybe ever.
I sigh against his lips, and he responds with the slow glide of his tongue along the seam.
I open for him as his hands roam all over my body. I let my hands wander, too, to the long strands of wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, and I move farther still, to the taut muscles in his back and his soft, round ass.
It’s a slow build as we let ourselves get lost in the moment—in each other.
He lowers me onto my back and crawls over me, lining his hips up against my center. My breath hitches as his hard length presses into me. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
He chuckles against my mouth. “Is my wife feeling needy?”
“Yes,” I respond breathily.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Touch me.”