Chapter 18
We spend the rest of the day between the bed and the couch. I wait on her hand and foot, let her initiate sex over and over, and each time, I sense her desire to take it up a notch... or ten. I resist, and Ava expresses her annoyance. I’m pretty sure vigorous sex should be avoided. In fact, I have endless questions about many things. So I ordered a book for next-day delivery. I have some catching up to do.
As the sun set and Ava dosed off, my mind rolled over the words she said.
Any kid would be blessed to have you as their daddy.
Naturally, that’s left me wondering if Ava would be of the same opinion if she knew about my past. About Rosie. The twinge in my stomach prompts me to rest my hand there. Can I bring myself to talk about her? And, of course, Rosie leads to Lauren. The twinge returns. My mind reminds me of the various times I’ve thought I’ve seen her. Thought. I know my head’s fucking with me, but for my own sanity and peace of mind, I’ve got to find out what happened to her.
I get up early and hit Google, trawling through the internet for Lauren’s parents details, thinking I’ll stop by. I can’t imagine they’ll be pleased to see me, but at the risk of my sanity. I find their small country estate on a map and the address comes back to me quickly. Not that it is of any use. I find a record on a property site detailing the sale. “Fuck.” But I keep searching. The last record of his name is from a private practice, in Scotland of all places. I make a note of the number to call later, then hit the endless sites about pregnancy again, what to do, what not to do, what to eat, what not to eat. It’s overwhelming to say the least, recommending other websites, books, classes. No mention of whether or not vigorous sex is okay. Strangely.
I look at the clock on the stove, my eyes burning from all the reading. It’s too early to get Ava up, and she shouldn’t be running anyway. Heading upstairs, I check on her in bed—out for the count—then get some shorts on and head down to the gym. The noise in my head forces me to flick on the TV, and I pull up a sports channel, watching the latest news coming in. Unfortunately, it does nothing to drown out the commotion in my mind.
Any kid would be blessed to have you as their daddy.
Or cursed.
I shake my head, increasing my pace, forcing my thoughts to better places. Where the fuck is Van Der Haus?
“Shit,” I yell, smacking the button on the pad to take me to the next level, my legs like pistons. Think of Ava. Think of our baby.
I stare at the TV as I work my way through the members of The Manor. Is there a doctor? Someone I can convince with a smile—and a stack of cash—to tell Ava that pregnant women shouldn’t work if they can help it? I huff. She’d see straight through me. Maybe we can compromise, agree she works from home for part of her week. I’m sure Peterson would be amenable. After I’ve flashed him some money too. This pregnancy could cost me a fortune. Doesn’t matter, the pot of cash is as limitless as my love.
And there will be even more cash if I sell The Manor.
I laugh to myself, wiping my brow. I’ll never sell it. I’m simply curious. It doesn’t hurt to talk.
But why wouldn’t you sell it?
The question jars me. Why would I?
Oh, no reason. Make sure you put a trampoline in the gardens for Ward Junior. Maybe one day he/she will bounce high enough to get a peek into the communal room window.
I smack the button to slow the pace a little when I cough, losing my footing for a second. Fucking hell. What a fucking comedian he is. “Go away,” I mutter.
Don’t say things you don’t mean.
I smile and keep running, feeling the air around me heating, the familiar electric surge enlightening me of her presence. She rounds me and, good fucking morning, she’s stark bollock naked.
I frown to myself, briefly looking around the gym.
Jake?
Ava lowers to the padded bench beneath the TV, her smile coy, as she drinks in my front and leans back on her hands, pushing her chest out, her open legs giving me a peek of her beautiful pussy. I swear my brother better have fucked off and gone to haunt someone else for a while.
Jake? You here?
I’m forced to slow the machine or fall flat on my face. Pulling the towel off the handle, I wipe my brow, leaning on the front of the machine, comfortable, giving my eyes a good fill of her. “Morning.”
“Morning yourself,” she says with a telling seductive edge to her quiet voice. “Why are you running in here?”
She knows exactly why I’m running in the gym rather than on the streets of London. “I fancied a change.”
She hums, thoughtful. But she doesn’t challenge me. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”
I do. I watched her eyes get heavier, felt her breathing change, and studied intently as she drifted off. “You went out like a light. I was happy to have you tucked into my side, so I let you be. You’re sleeping for England, baby.”
“What time is it?” she asks on a yawn, arms up, her torso becoming taut. My eyes cross. My dick yells and throbs.
“Morning!” Cathy’s voice drifts into the gym, and Ava springs up from the bench.
“I’m naked!”
“So you are.” Gloriously naked. I get off the machine and rub the towel through my hair. “Whatever will Cathy think?”
She whips the towel from my hand and assesses the small rectangle on a worried frown.
“I don’t think that’ll quite cover it.”
“Help me,” she whispers.
“Come here.” I smile and open my arms, and she’s attached to my front in a second, hiding in my neck. How long will it be before her stomach stops her arms from circling my neck?
I go to the door and look out, hearing Cathy in the kitchen. I call her to confirm it before nipping out and taking my naked, pregnant wife back upstairs. Those three words.
Naked. Pregnant. Wife.
My smile widens as I put her down and steal a kiss.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Ten to eight.” I nibble my lip, waiting for her to yell at me, although, to be fair, I lost track of time on the running machine this morning. But I can’t say I would have woken her had I not lost track of time.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she moans as she disappears into the bathroom.
“You needed to sleep.” It looks like it’s back to work for Ava and back to killing time for me.
“Not for fifteen hours,” she calls from the bathroom. I hear the shower start raining water and go to join her.
“You obviously do need it,” I grumble, kicking off my trainers as Ava works at lightning speed, washing her hair and body and stepping out before my shorts hit the floor. Well, that’s me redundant this morning. I follow her path past me, sighing as I get in the shower and take my time washing. “Fucking hate weekdays,” I mumble, squeezing some shower gel into my palm and rubbing it everywhere. “She should be taking it easy. Sleeping. Eating.” I rinse and step out, hearing the sound of her hairdryer. I brush my teeth, continuing to mumble my displeasure around my mouthful of paste. Maybe I can convince her to join me for lunch after my meeting with Owen Cutler.
As I walk into the bedroom, Ava’s on her way out. Fuck me, she’s moving fast this morning. I dress, squirt on some cologne, quickly pick a tie, and head downstairs, grabbing our keys off the table by the front door and pocketing them.
“I’ll grab something at work,” Ava says as I enter the kitchen.
“You’ll eat,” I retort firmly. She spins around, probably ready to argue with me, but she stumbles over her words, her delighted eyes taking me in as I fasten my tie. “She’ll have a bagel, Cathy.” I put Ava on a stool. I don’t care if she’s late, she’s having breakfast. It’s non-negotiable. “With eggs.” Wait. Eggs? I saw them on a list of foods to avoid during my marathon trawl of the internet. “Actually, no eggs.”
Ava snorts and slips off the stool, getting her bag on her shoulder. “Cathy, thank you,” she says, directing a reproachful look my way. What did I do? “But I’ll eat at work.” She walks out, leaving me in the kitchen wondering what the fuck happened to the negotiations?
I blink, feeling Cathy looking at me. “She’s pregnant,” I say quietly.
Cathy gasps, and a second later she’s got her hands over her face, her eyes wide. “Oh, Jesse.”
I smile mildly. “We’re thrilled,” I say, seeing she’s unsure how to react. Although you’d never know we’re thrilled.
“Oh, how wonderful!”
The front door slams. What the fuck has gotten into her? It’s the outside world. It doesn’t agree with her. She goes from passive and obedient at home to a fucking nightmare in a heartbeat on the outside world.
“I’ll see you later.” I go after Ava and swing the door open, finding her by the elevator hitting the call button like she hates it. I widen my stance and slip my hands into my pockets, confused by this unexplained outburst. Will pregnancy bring on more sass, because we definitely don’t need that?
“No eggs,” she yells at the closed doors.
And it becomes clear. She’s got the hump because she can’t have eggs?
“You okay?” I ask calmly, hoping she’ll syphon some off me and bring it down a notch or twenty. All over eggs?
“I can eat eggs,” she shouts. I beg to differ. Just ask the World Wide Web. “What’s the new code?”
“Excuse me?” If she asks nicely, I might share. But she doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for nice this morning. Fine by me. It just means she’s going nowhere. Again, fine by me.
“You heard,” she snaps, blindly hitting the keypad as she drills holes into me with her blazing glare.
“Yes, I heard.” Is there any need for this? It’s a complete overreaction. I’m not accepting it. “But I’m giving you a chance to retract that tone.”
She momentarily looks taken aback. I don’t know why. My wife needs to understand that if she’s unreasonable, I will call her out. If she talks to me like I’m a petulant child, I will call her out.
Quickly gathering herself, she deflates with a sigh and comes to me. Oh good. She’s seen reason. I don’t want to leave on bad terms. I don’t want us to leave each other at all, no surprises there.
Coming close, she leans up, and I dip, ready to catch her lips and her apology.
I can smell her breath. Her skin. Her... rage?
“Fuck... off,” she whispers quietly.
I jerk like I’ve just stuck my fingers in a live socket. What the ever-loving fuck? My ears bleeding, I watch her march away, pushing through the door into the stairwell with a bang. “Over eggs?” I gasp, feeling at my stubble. Jesus, that’s one small thing on a list I got fed up of reading. I know Ava won’t read it, so it’s down to me, which means it’s also down to me to share the information I learn. “Pray for me,” I say to myself, laughing under my breath when the elevator dings and the doors slide open.
Praying, bro.
I step inside and hope the thirteen flights Ava has to descend will be enough time for her to calm the fuck down. Clive looks up from his desk when I step out, his old face expressing his question before he asks it.
“No Mrs. Ward this morning, Mr. Ward?”
“She’s taking the scenic route,” I say, going to the stairwell door and waiting for her. I suppose this is one of the things she was talking about. Levels of smothering. Ava’s a smart woman. She must know pregnant women can’t eat eggs. She doesn’t want the eggs. She just doesn’t want me to tell her that she can’t have the fucking eggs.
The second the door opens, I move forward and walk her back into the stairwell, getting her up against the closest wall. She’s gasping for breath. Her cheeks are red. Her forehead’s damp.
“You’re not getting an apology fuck,” she breathes, her look an endearing mix of lust and pure filth. Her heart isn’t only hammering from overexertion now.
Close.
Contact.
“Mouth,” I say calmly.
“No, you’re not—” I cover her mouth with mine, slipping my tongue past her lips and sweeping wide, swallowing down her defiance, and she’s with me, grabbing my suit, climbing me like a fucking tree. Oh, she’s delightfully receptive. It makes her sulks laughable.
“Stubborn woman,” I whisper, nibbling at her lobe. “Someone’s gagging for it.” And it won’t hurt to remind her that no matter what, I can take her from zero to one hundred on the horny scale with one kiss and one touch. “Shall I make you scream in the stairwell, Ava?” I ask, smiling as she clings to me, silently begging me for it. Insatiable. Why does she fight it? I’ve got to admit, though. I do enjoy proving to her who has the power.
“Yes,” she gasps.
My dick’s screaming, begging me to put it in its favorite place, pleading for me to relieve it. I want to. I really want to. But long-term gains mean short-term sacrifices. So I detach my body from hers, mentally apologize to my cock, and leave her a panting, desperate mess propped against the wall. “Would love to,” I say, my voice low, my hard stare fixed on her flushed form. “But I’m late.”
Her realization is a beautiful thing to watch surface. Beautiful. “You bastard,” she whispers, not trying to seduce me into giving her what she wants—what we both want—because she has a point to prove. But today, I win. A little win, but it’s a win.
She swipes up her bag and pushes her way out of the stairwell, and I follow, smiling, adjusting my trousers as I watch her arse sway, her angry stomping feet giving it extra bounce.
She stops outside briefly before heading to her Mini. Here we go again.
She gets in, and I sigh, approaching and tapping the window as the engine roars to life. She takes the tip of her finger and presses a button with accuracy and a smile that would win any competition for sarcasm.
“Yes?” she says in a singsong voice.
“I’ll take you to work.” My voice is not a singsong voice. It’s a don’t fuck with me voice.
“No, thank you.” More singsonging. I growl as the window rises and she very nearly runs over my toes as she zooms out of the parking space.
“For fuck’s sake.” But I smile, because my lovely, hormonal wife—please be fucking hormones—doesn’t realize the remote fob has been removed from her car.
She stops at the gates, and I wait for the reverse lights to come on.
They don’t.
But the gates do start opening.
Huh? How the fu?—?
I gasp, every muscle engaging to run after her. There’s no way I’ll make it. She whizzes out and drives off. Fuck it. “Clive!” I yell, storming back into the foyer. “What the fucking hell are you playing at?”
The old boy looks startled. Confused.
“You opened the gates!”
“Well, Mr. Ward, when a resident asks for the gates to be opened, it’s my job to open them.”
I slam my palms on his desk and lean over threateningly. “Ava’s an exception.”
“Oh. Okay, sir. Should I relay that to Casey?”
“No.” I push my way off his desk and go to my car. “I’ll tell him.” I fall into my Aston and count all the ways in which she’s defied me this morning. Endless. “Grrrrr,” I growl, leaving Lusso, splitting my attention between the opening gates and my phone, searching for the number I need and dialing.
“Good morning, thank you for calling Tea and Two Sugars, this is Bianca speaking, how may I assist you?”
I laugh out loud. “That was very professional.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Jesse Ward.”
“Who’s Jesse Ward?”
“That man from the café.”
“There are a lot of men who come to the café.”
Jesus. “Tall, suit, dark blond, green eyes.”
“I don’t look closely enough at my customers to note an eye color.”
I grit my teeth. “Old, rich guy.”
“Oh, Mr. Ward, how are you?”
“You’re hard work, Bianca.”
“Good morning to you.”
“Good morning.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Ward?”
“Deliver my wife some breakfast, please.”
“You mean the woman you’ve been stalking?”
“I’m allowed to stalk her because she’s my wife.” I roll my eyes, pulling out of the gates. “And she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, wow, congratulations.”
I smile, chuffed. “Thanks.”
“I’m afraid we don’t deliver.”
“It’s across the road.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Two hundred.”
“What?”
“I’ll pay you two hundred pounds to make my wife some breakfast, no eggs, and deliver it all twenty yards across the road.” I raise my brows at the lingering silence.
“I am more than happy to help, Mr. Ward.”
“Thought you would be.”
“Because, of course you are one of our best customers.”
“Indeed.”
“And we value our customers.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
She laughs. “What’s on the menu?”
I reel off my order. “And a Starbucks. Cappuccino, no chocolate.”
“We’re not a Starbucks, Mr. Ward.”
“I know, but you can pop to the one down the street.”
“What’s wrong with my coffee?”
“Nothing.”
“I haven’t got?—”
“Two fifty.”
“Happy to help.”
I shake my head. “Thanks. I’ll drop the cash by soon.” I hang up, checking the time. The surgery I noted down will be open. I take a breath and call, pressing one for reception when prompted. I’m then told I’m number ten in the queue. I wait, because what else will I do on my way to pay for my wife’s breakfast?
I’mnumber one in the queue when I pull into Bruton Street. I snag a parking space at the top end of the street and take my phone off Bluetooth, walking down to the café with it at my ear. Bianca appears from the back, just as someone answers my call. I hold a hand up to her and take a seat at a nearby table. “Hi, yes, I was hoping to speak to Dr. Alan Pierce.”
“Dr. Pierce?” The receptionist sounds confused. “I’m afraid we don’t have a Dr. Pierce here.”
“But it says online that he works at this practice. Or worked.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ve only been here for eighteen months, so perhaps it was before me.”
“Perhaps,” I muse. “Could you ask someone who’s been there longer?”
“Sure. I’ll have the practice manager call you back.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay then, goodbye.”
“You’ve not taken my name or number.”
“Your number is on my screen. Ends in 674?”
“That’s it.”
“And your name?”
I don’t want to give it in case it rings any bells with anyone. Like whom? I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. I can’t imagine Alan will want to hear from me. So I scratch around in my brain for a name. Any name. Fuck. “Norman,” I blurt. “Norman Partridge.” What the fuck?
“Got it.” She hangs up, and I have absolutely no faith that anyone will call me back. “Norman fucking Partridge?” I question as Bianca approaches. I hand over the cash as promised.
“I just took it over,” she says. “She looked surprised.”
“You mean annoyed?” I reply over a laugh.
“Yes, and that. Are you smothering her?”
“Apparently,” I mutter, leaving the cafe. “Thanks, Bianca.”
“Anytime, Mr. Ward.”
I bet.I give Ava’s office front a wide berth—or as wide as I can while walking on the same street—and head to the florist.
The girl looks up when I push my way in, and then gets to work quickly. “When am I delivering?” she asks.
“You’re not.”
She blinks, surprised. “I’m not?”
“I’m delivering them myself today.” I hand over some cash, my chest puffing out. “It’s a special occasion.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“We’re expecting.”
“Expecting what?”
My shoulders drop. “A ba?—”
“I’m playing with you, Mr. Ward.”
“Oh. Okay.” I grimace, giving her grabby hands. “Very funny. Give me the flowers.”
She hands them over on a smirk, and I scowl lightly. “Congratulations, Mr. Ward. And have a good day.”
“Yeah, you too,” I say, pulling in my suit jacket and breathing deeply as I pace down the street, unconsciously checking the face of every blond woman I see. Paranoid.
I’m not expecting to be welcomed with open arms by my wife. The flowers are a bargaining chip. Lilies in exchange for acceptance. I’m not holding my breath that they’ll work, but this is me listening to my wife. Flowers are an acceptable form of smothering, I’m sure of it. Couple that with storming her office, which I know to be unacceptable, I’m hoping I land somewhere in the middle.
Arriving at the Rococo Union office, I look through the glass. She’s standing at her desk. Breakfast untouched. For God’s sake.
I text her.
Are you eating your breakfast?
I watch as she looks down at her mobile. Did she just roll her eyes?
Yummy.
She’s a gem.
I’m so glad our marriage is based on honesty.
Did you really just text that, bro?
I scowl, ignoring Jake, as I push my way through the door, and Ava stills for a moment before she looks up at me. She drops to her chair, exasperated. She should try being married to my wife. I nod my hellos to her colleagues as I walk to her desk and help myself to the chair on the other side.
“Eat.” I place the flowers down, motioning to the paper bag.
“I’m not hungry, Jesse.”
She might be if she knew how much that poxy roll cost me. Or it might make her a bit nauseous. Speaking of which... “Baby, you look pale.”
“I feel rubbish,” she breathes, shrinking in the chair. My God, what is she doing here? She doesn’t want to be at work, feels terrible, but to prove her fucking point, whatever the fuck that is, she’s forcing herself to endure the torture. Am I going to have to put my foot down? Pick her up and carry her out? Because I will.
I stand and round her chair, feeling at her forehead. I expect her to bat my fussing hands away. The fact that she doesn’t only reinforces how drained she is. “You’re hot.”
“I know.” She accepts my kiss on her cheek as I pull her hair off her face, checking over my shoulder for Peterson. His office door is open, his desk empty. Where is he?
“I hope you feel guilty,” she mumbles.
Right now, I really do. But I can make her feel better. Look after her, if she’d only bloody let me. I lower to my haunches and turn her chair toward me, my face soft, my eyes softer. “Let me take you home.”
“It’ll pass,” she says on a weak smile.
“You’re impossible sometimes. Pregnancy is making you moody and even more defiant.”
“I like keeping you on your toes.”
Yes, I’m a fucking ballerina these days. “You mean you like keeping me crazy.”
“That too.”
I’m not going to win this one. And forcing anything work related isn’t getting me any brownie points. So I’ll have to endure her job until she relents to pregnancy. I truly hope Ava gets more happiness and fulfillment from being a mother, so much so, she wants to be a stay-at-home mum. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I’d be a stay-at-home dad too. We’ll be stay-at-home parents. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that option. We do. Both of us present and undistracted by life to raise our baby. Be there constantly. It would be perfect. I rise and peck Ava’s lips. “Please eat. It might make you feel better.”
“Okay.”
I shouldn’t get too excited. Her acquiescence is probably because she feels too ill to argue. “Good girl.” I turn her back toward her desk and pull the bacon bagel over.
She opens the bag and snaps it shut again, her shoulders jerking. “I don’t think I can.”
She has to. She needs food in her belly. I get the bagel out and set it in front of her, and she stares at it, bracing herself while I silently will her on, patiently waiting for her to brave a bite, and when she does, she chews forever, the effort obvious. “Can I just eat the bagel?” she asks.
“Yes,” I sigh, pleased with her willingness. “Do you see how happy you make me when you do what you’re told?”
She doesn’t humor me, on a roll now, chomping her way through her breakfast. I can literally see the color rising into her cheeks with each bite. Don’t tell me I don’t know what’s best for my pregnant wife. She knows I’m not leaving here until she’s eaten, but I will leave here. That’s my flex. We’re figuring this out slowly but surely. “Happy?” she asks, even sounding better.
“Your color’s back, so yes, I’m happy.” Very happy indeed. I clear her desk so it’s ready for her to work and lean in over her chair, forcing her back. “Thank you.” A bit of gratitude doesn’t hurt, and the smile that mirrors mine feeds my soul. “My work here is done.” For now, anyway. I crush her smile with my lips and breathe her into me, setting myself up for the next fuck knows how many hours without her. “Now I’ll leave my wife to work in peace.”
“No, you won’t,” she says over a laugh.
“I might check in once or twice.” And that would be perfectly reasonable given her condition.
She laughs harder. “No, you won’t.”
I’m taking her amusement as a sign of her acceptance. “I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.” I quickly take a peek into Peterson’s office again. “Is Patrick here?”
“No. He’s in meetings all day.”
Hmmm. Is she stalling the conversation she needs to have with him about Van Der Haus? I glance at my watch. “You’ve made me late.”
“You make yourself late.” I’m forced away from her desk. “Go.”
“Feeling better?” I ask as I reverse my steps.
“I do.” She admitted it? Wow. “Thank you.” And gratitude too? Strike me down now.
I blast her back with a smile, kiss the air, and stride out, happy.
Perhaps a happy balance won’t be so hard to find after all.