Chapter 9
Mariah
For the millionth time, I try to wrap my head around the task at hand. The whole reason I’m here. I need to feed Titus breakfast. But for some reason, my brain can’t seem to compute the steps required.
I feel off this morning. Weird in a way I can’t explain. Like nothing is real and the world and I are two separate entities. I’m stuck in a fog of alternate reality I can’t quite make my way out of.
I came downstairs thinking tea might help, but now that I’m here, I can’t stomach the thought of it. I can’t make myself eat any of the crackers I normally depend on either. Thankfully, I don’t feel like throwing up. I just feel…
Wrong.
It’s probably pregnancy related, so I keep trying to get my shit together. This is my life now—and for the next almost seven months—so I’ve got to figure out a way to deal with it.
It takes way more effort than normal to think of what to make for breakfast. I swear I had a plan when I went to bed last night, but I can’t quite remember. It was probably brilliant too. Would have been the best dish I’ve ever created.
The skin on my face is suddenly very cold and a weird weakness takes over my limbs, forcing me to lean against the counter as I pull in deep breaths. I can’t keep going like this. I’ve got to figure out a solution.
Even though putting something in my stomach isn’t the least bit appealing, I pull out a pouch of ginger tea. Maybe this is just a different version of morning sickness. One I haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing before.
I sure as heck hope not. It’s going to be really hard to keep my pregnancy on the down low if I start feeling like this on a regular basis.
As if the universe wants to confirm my concerns, Titus sends me a text, asking if I’m okay.
Forcing on a smile, I give the camera I know he’s watching me through a thumbs up.
And holy shit does it take a lot of effort.
The act seems to burn the last of what little energy I brought downstairs with me this morning.
I’m going to have to go back to bed as soon as I’m done cooking. It’s the only option I have. Because if I don’t, I’m going to freaking collapse. I should be able to get at least an hour or two of rest in. Hopefully it will help ease whatever awful symptom this is.
Once my tea is done, I go back to leaning against the counter, staring down into the steaming concoction as I work up the motivation to take a sip. I know I should, but the weakness in my limbs is back, only now they also feel ridiculously heavy. Like I couldn’t lift my hand even if I tried.
The sound of my cell phone receiving another text message vaguely registers as the room around me starts getting darker. Like the sun is sliding behind a cloud, which is strange since the sky was clear just a few seconds ago.
It keeps getting darker as thunder rumbles through the house. Loud and heavy. The sign of a storm moving in.
I blink my eyes hard as everything gets blurry. Out of focus.
It’s not until needles prickle across my skin that I recognize what’s happening. There’s no storm. No clouds. No thunder.
I’m passing out.
The last conscious thought I have is to lean away from the counter so I don’t smack my face on the edge as I go down. Then, everything goes black.
“Mariah.” The deep voice calling to me through the darkness is soft, but edged with panic. “I need you to wake up.”
I vaguely remember feeling cold, but now I’m so warm. Comfortable and cozy. Surrounded by a familiar scent that has me curling closer to its source, fully intending to slip back into the quiet place I just came from.
Something brushes against my cheek. The touch is careful but slightly rough as it smooths over my skin, sliding in a slow pass that tracks the curve of my jaw before stroking into my hair.
It’s been so long since someone touched me like this. With tenderness. I must be dreaming. The only person who ever held me this way was my mother, and that was only before I started reminding her of everything she couldn’t have.
But it’s not a soft feminine body curled around me right now. The arms holding me are solid. Strong. The chest I’m pressed against is broad and firm.
And my mother’s perfume was soft and floral. What’s tickling my nose now is—
Something I’ve smelled before.
I try to open my eyes, but they just kind of roll around behind my eyelids no matter how hard I work to get them up.
“That’s it.” The warm hand continues gliding through my hair, gently brushing it away from my face. “Good girl. You can do it.”
That voice. It’s almost as warming as the heat radiating from the body pressed to mine. It’s so deep. A little rough—like it doesn’t get used a lot.
And very, very appealing.
Appealing enough, I’m no longer trying to slide back under. I want—need—to see the source of that voice. The face of the man holding me so gently.
This time, I manage to blink, wincing a little when the bright morning light hits my retinas. It takes me a second to find focus, and when I do, I can’t hide my reaction.
A slow smile finds its way onto my lips as I stare up at Titus Bradshaw. “You came out of your cave.”
His green eyes move over my face, the slashes of his dark brows pinching together as he looks me over. “Did you hit your head?”
“Are you planning to try to convince me I’m hallucinating your existence because of a concussion?” I shake my head, unable to look away as I try to take in everything in front of me. “Because I don’t think it will work.”
I couldn’t have come up with what I’m seeing now if I tried. Even my best and most flattering imaginings of Titus—and there were more than a few—haven’t come close to the man studying me with a concerned—and slightly haunted—gaze.
I thought Walker was good-looking. And he is. In a basic, classically attractive sort of way.
Titus Bradshaw is nothing like that, and nothing could convince me my brain fashioned him all on its own. I’m not that creative when it comes to anything besides food. And honestly, my history with men probably limits my ability to imagine them as anything but shiny turds.
I certainly wouldn’t have been able to come up with wavy—slightly overgrown—dark hair that falls a little into one eye. Piercing green eyes that are assessing, but warm. Full lips. A sharp jaw shadowed by the beginnings of a beard.
Walker might be handsome, but Titus is beautiful.
He’s also heavily scarred. The twisting lines of healed skin pucker and bulge across his right cheek, clawing their way up to his forehead and around to his chin. They weave down the line of his jaw and along the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
The sight of them might have been startling a week ago, but not now. Now I know why he hides away, and it makes my chest ache. Makes me wish I’d baked him that damn caramel cake he wanted.
Titus’s gaze narrows slightly as his strong fingers slowly work across my scalp in a motion that feels so freaking good I almost moan.
“What day is it?”
“Hmm?” I’m going to blame my distraction on finally seeing him and his magic touch rather than a possible head injury.
Titus’s brows lower, the left one moving more effectively than the right. “What day is it today?”
“Oh.” I have to think about it for a second—again, more likely due to finding myself in Titus Bradshaw’s arms than my little fall-down—but I manage to rattle off the month and date, adding the day of the week for good measure.
My brain seems to be doing okay—as okay as it ever is—but I still feel so tired. “How long was I out?”
“Not long.” Titus finishes checking every inch of my head. “Does anything hurt?”
Again, I have to think about it for a second—take stock of all my bits and pieces—before answering, “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Titus shifts around, barely jostling me as my butt sinks into the cushion of the couch. It’s not until he has me fully on the sofa that I realize I wasn’t only in his arms, I was also curled up on his lap.
Really wish I’d been awake for that, which is probably not a great development.
It’s also not shocking. Between his looks, his voice, his scent, and his lack of hesitation to come help me in spite of his own needs, it’s pretty hard not to feel a little crushy over Titus.
But considering my history of falling into shallow pools head first, the last thing I need is to have a crush on the man responsible for signing my paycheck.
I have more important things to think about. To focus on.
Like how in the hell am I gonna tell him I’m pregnant.
That was the game plan this whole time. Build a rapport with Titus—check. Blow his mind with my skills in the kitchen—double check. Show him I’m worth keeping on the payroll even though things could get a little sticky for a minute? Hopefully checkmate.
But now that I’m facing him in the flesh, I’m a little reluctant to admit my current situation. For reasons that have nothing to do with my job and everything to do with why I probably need therapy.
“I should go to my room.” I try to sit up. I need to get away from him. All this time I spent trying to lure him out, and now I’m the one trying to hide.
The irony.
Titus shakes his head, expression stern as his hands come to my shoulders, pressing me back down. “Absolutely not.” He doesn’t let me go even once I’m back lying against the cushions. “You passed out. You should probably go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“I’m not going to the hospital to get checked out.” He’s overreacting, but doesn’t know it, and I’m too messy to tell him. “I probably just need to eat something. Maybe hydrate a little better.”
Titus’s lips flatten into a thin line, the scarred edge of his mouth curving upward due to the lack of stretch in that part of his skin. “Why didn’t you eat anything this morning?”
“Well…” I swallow hard, knowing now’s the perfect time. The moment I should spill the truth. Waiting will only make everything worse. It will seem like I was trying to hide it.
“I just wasn’t hungry.” The lie slides right out, a symptom of a sickness I obviously have yet to cure.
There is no reason I shouldn’t tell Titus about Peanut.
He likes my cooking enough to threaten hacking into his brothers’ security systems to keep them from eating it.
I could probably assume he wouldn’t fire me because I might have a few weeks where I won’t be able to cook the way I do now.
Plus, he stays in a sound-proof room. It’s not like a crying baby will keep him up at night.
The only reason I have to keep this a secret is entirely selfish and completely stupid. A sign I’m still just as ridiculous as I’ve always been. That no matter how much gets poured out, I’m still delusional enough to believe my glass is half-full.
“You still need to eat.” Titus straightens, leaning forward to tuck a blanket around my body. The same one he covered me with the night I fell asleep waiting for him to come downstairs. “Stay here. I’m going to make you something.”
I frown up at him. “But you said you couldn’t cook.”
The hard set of Titus’s mouth softens the tiniest bit, hinting at a smile I have yet to see. “I can’t.”
He turns and walks away, like that’s the end of the conversation.
I sit up, confused. And honestly, also a little concerned. “But—”
Without turning to look back at me, Titus barks out, “Lay back down.” He continues into the kitchen, grabbing the loaf of bread I made yesterday. “I said I can’t cook, but I’m competent enough to make you toast.”
I watch as he opens the drawer where I keep my knives—the only thing I brought with me besides my clothing and a few sentimental items—pulling out the serrated version I use to slice through the loaves.
Next, he retrieves the cutting board he ordered me in one of his shopping benders.
After sawing off a few thick slices, he pops each into the four slotted toaster and lowers the levers.
As he continues working, it becomes clear Titus was watching me more than I realized. He knows where every item in the kitchen is. Knows what I use and how I use it.
But it’s not just his kitchen he’s been paying attention to. When Titus returns to the couch carrying two plates—one for him and one for me—it’s obvious he didn’t miss much through the lens of his cameras.
I stare down at what he’s made me, a strange sensation settling into my stomach. “There’s jam on my toast.”
Titus settles onto the seat beside me, biting off a chunk of his own lackluster breakfast. The brow on the unscarred side of his face angles. “Have you gone back to peanut butter already?”
I don’t know what to say, so I just shake my head.
Titus swallows what’s in his mouth, sliding his plate onto the coffee table. “Cinnamon and sugar?”
I blink a few times, completely overwhelmed at the strength of my reaction to this moment. Who cries because a man noticed they’ve been rotating through their toast toppings, trying to keep things interesting while their stomach rebelled?
Probably a woman who’s never had a single man give two shits about her before.
I manage a shaky breath, swallowing hard at the tightness in my throat. “No. This is good. I was just surprised you noticed this was how I’ve been eating it.”
I take a bite of the buttery, fruity goodness, grateful the taste of it doesn’t make me gag. I’ve already almost cried in front of Titus within the first few minutes of finally meeting him. I can only imagine how quickly he would run away if I followed that up with barfing.
His eyes stay on me, intense in a way that makes me want to squirm as he says, “I notice everything about you.”