Chapter 9
Ava
Well, I’ve certainly picked a terrible day to drop life-changing news.
Who could have known that Axel would decide to be a dick and ruin not only his own race, but his teammate’s and Zaid’s.
I mean, I guess I should have known, considering the type of driver he is, but still.
It’s a shit show all around for the Specter Energy family, which I’m undoubtedly still a part of if the mortification I’m feeling counts for anything.
You can fire a girl from the team, but you can’t take away the fact that she feels responsible for one of their dumbass drivers.
Despite the paddock being only a few miles away, I watched the race from a nondescript luxury hotel room.
Edith and her sister-in-law, Stella, squirreled me away here late last night after an absurd amount of planning and reconnaissance.
It all started with deciding the Miami Grand Prix weekend was the right time to tell Zaid about my pregnancy.
From there, it was planning how to set up a private conversation and how we’d keep anyone else – like my father or the press – from finding out about our chat.
The hotel where Zaid was staying was our best bet; no one would question why he was there, and we wouldn’t have to go out of our way to coax him to a separate location.
When Edith told me she had it handled and not to worry myself with the details, I trusted her.
But when she shared that she’d asked Thomas’s wife to help out, I nearly called the whole thing off.
Was she out of her mind? What if Stella spilled the beans about the baby to Thomas?
What if Thomas told Zaid before I even could?
Now I’m glad Stella’s in on it, because I can’t imagine anyone else could have wheedled their way into getting the information we needed.
I’m blissfully ignoring that some of the methods may have verged on light stalking, but without her, we wouldn’t have been able to covertly approach Zaid’s bodyguard or convince him to pass on a message to his boss.
Stella, though? That woman gets whatever she wants with just a bat of her lashes and a few choice words.
And that’s why I’m awkwardly pacing this hotel room, staring down at a text from Edith – who’s been playing lookout down in the lobby – telling me that Zaid’s in the building.
If Stella succeeded in getting my note delivered, then Zaid should be on his way up here.
If she didn’t, then he’s probably headed to his own room, and I’ll be stuck planning another ambush.
A knock on the door halts my pacing and spiraling, my eyes cutting across the small entryway, and it’s a long moment before I force my feet to move. I hold my breath as I press up on tiptoes to look through the peephole, stumbling down again when I glimpse Zaid through the glass.
Okay, so he actually showed up. Great. Absolutely perfect. This is . . . this is what I wanted. Everything is going according to plan. And yet it takes me a few more panicked seconds before I can haul the door open with trembling hands.
Even getting a preview of him through the peephole couldn’t prepare me for the force of being face to face with him again.
The scent of his cologne hits me first with its deep, heady oud, freshly applied and so exquisitely him.
His hair is damp from a post-debrief shower and the scruff on his jaw is a little darker than usual, like he meant to shave this morning but figured it wasn’t worth the trouble.
The rugged look works entirely too well for him.
Most noticeable, though, is how the Miami heat has his black Mascort T-shirt clinging to him in all the right places. The sight has me flustered, flashing back to what it was like seeing him stripped down to nothing and feeling his skin against mine, and wondering if he’d be up for that again.
Fuck, these pregnancy hormones are no joke, although they’re nearly overwhelmed by the relief of seeing him again. But, oh god, he’s here, and now I have to break the news that he’s the father of my child.
‘Ava.’
I don’t realize I’ve been staring slack-jawed until he murmurs my name, and even then I can’t move or speak, stuck buffering between I’ve made a huge mistake and How is this man so beautiful? and Tell him now, just do it!
‘You said you needed to see me.’ His eyes drift over my face and then drag down, drinking in every inch in the same appreciative way he admired me lying naked beneath him. ‘Is everything all right?’
It’s another excruciating beat before my brain sparks back to life. I clear my throat, wanting to give him an answer to his question, but I’m not sure everything is all right – at least, not for him.
‘Come in,’ I force out, stepping back to let him past me. ‘We can talk inside.’
Zaid watches me, expression unreadable, but then he stiltedly nods and enters.
I nearly trip over my feet as I turn and move quickly toward the suite’s living room.
With lingering first trimester exhaustion still kicking my ass, I take a much-needed seat on the sofa and motion for him to sit next to me, noting that he looks as tired as I feel.
There are dark smudges under his guarded eyes and the set of his jaw is tense, his brow dipped and heavy.
I wouldn’t expect any less after a hot, grueling race that ended with slamming into the barriers.
But Zaid stays where he is in front of me, not moving other than folding his arms over his chest – god, his biceps are impressive – and tilting his chin down to look at me.
‘What am I doing here, princess?’ he asks when I still say nothing. His tone is gentle and the endearment disarming, but there’s still an edge of impatience to it.
Right. Okay. Moment of truth.
I take a deep breath before announcing, ‘There’s something I need to share with you.’
Zaid cocks an eyebrow, the rest of his expression unchanged. ‘Do you have Specter’s car design for next season?’
I snort, not because his deadpan joke meant to ease the tension is particularly funny, but because I don’t know how else to react. ‘As if they’d let me anywhere near that,’ I lament.
‘Then what is it, Ava?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
I don’t mean to just blurt it out, practically combining the two words, but they’re now hanging between us, lit up like a neon sign in Las Vegas.
And Zaid just . . . stares at me. There’s no flicker across his face of my words registering, nothing that might hint at how he’s internally reacting.
I don’t know what else to say, all language escaping me in a moment when it would be useful to grab my habit of overexplaining by the horns and ride it all the way toward getting something out of him.
Instead, I’m left staring back at him, stomach churning in a way that I can’t credit to morning sickness – which has really been like all day sickness – while I wait for him to say something.
‘When did you find out?’
It’s a perfectly even-keeled question, like he’s already accepted what I’ve said as fact and is now cycling his way through all the pertinent questions.
I know everyone handles shock in their own special way – personally, I lean more toward the dramatic – but his unaffected demeanor almost feels like an insult.
Despite that, I swallow back the nausea and answer. ‘About six weeks ago.’
Maybe the fact that I’ve been keeping such a major secret will inspire something in him. But . . . nope. Nothing past one slightly robotic blink.
‘And you’re how far along?’
I’m blinking enough for the both of us, fighting back an annoying hormonal rush of tears because why isn’t he reacting? ‘Nearly thirteen weeks,’ I say, hating the waver in my voice.
It seems to crack some part of his iced-over exterior, though. A muscle in his forehead twitches as his eyebrows briefly pull together, and he unfolds his arms to slowly swipe his palms across his thighs. ‘I’m guessing you’re telling me because you’re planning to keep the baby?’
I nod, not trusting my voice, but the motion is resolute. I know what I want, and I won’t let him think he can change my mind. I’m privileged that I have choices, and the one I’ve made is one I’ve never been surer about.
‘Okay,’ he says, like it’s really that easy to accept.
Then he turns and pukes in the wastebasket by the door.
——
‘Again, I am incredibly sorry about that,’ Zaid says for what has to be the dozenth time, his ice-man facade gone as his true mortification seeps through. ‘It’s . . . been a day.’
No kidding. After getting his shit rocked physically – and I’m not ruling out that he might have a slight concussion – I’ve come and done the emotional equivalent. ‘I get it,’ I say lightly. ‘I’ve been spending a lot of my time puking too.’
Zaid almost laughs but settles his lips into a firm line instead, my joke a reminder of the situation at hand.
We’re both on the small sofa now, thighs pressed together in unavoidable contact, him slumped forward with his elbows on his knees while I lean back to keep my uncomfortably tight jeans from pressing into my new bump.
It’s barely there, nothing more than what I usually look like on my most bloated days, but it’s an undeniable thing.
‘I apologize for ambushing you,’ I push on. ‘But it felt like something I should tell you face to face.’
Not particularly feeling that way any more, considering he’s a little pale under his five-o’clock shadow and has taken to staring at a spot on the floor instead of looking anywhere in my direction. Shit, maybe a phone call would have been better.
‘I appreciate you telling me in person,’ he says before drawing in a deep breath. ‘This is just . . . unexpected.’