Chapter 19
Ava
@LIGHTS_OUT_GOSSIP
Hola, chicas. Welcome to Barcelona for the Spanish Grand Prix.
We have airport arrival photos from the last few hours.
It looks like Dev and Reid flew together on Reid’s private jet (when are you going to buy your own, Dev?
you’re making that big Mascort money now) with Willow Williams (Dev’s girlfriend and Reid’s social media manager) in tow, while Thomas and Raphael flew commercial (our environmentally conscious kings).
Axel took his own jet and arrived with team principal Omid Farahani, both looking less than pleased to be there.
We wonder if their discontent has anything to do with the happy couple who arrived at the private hangar just an hour before. Although, Zaid looked considerably less happy when he spotted the photographers and quickly hustled Ava into an awaiting SUV.
There’s plenty of chatter happening about the divisions that little bun in the oven has caused between Ava and her Specter Energy family – and it’s made everyone question where Ava’s loyalties truly lie. Is this a return of Specter’s Spy? Or is she firmly on Team Zaid these days?
COMMENTS
Mascort4Life That woman is a distraction neither Zaid nor Axel needs (much as that last bit pains me to admit). If their performance suffers, I know exactly who I’m blaming.
hopelessly_DEVoted right, right because it’s always a woman’s fault, isn’t it
Mascort4Life @hopelessly_DEVoted It is when the same woman is constantly causing trouble. She needs to know her place and back off.
Barcelona
Axel’s going to be furious when I tell him Zaid’s motorhome is nicer than his.
Well, he will be if he ever talks to me again. I knew he wasn’t happy about my pregnancy, but I didn’t expect him to be so upset that he’d avoid me for an entire month. I have to wonder if his hesitance to talk to me is partially due to my dad, another man who has refused to acknowledge me lately.
I don’t love it, but that’s the current state of things, and I’m not going to sulk over it no matter how much it makes my heart ache, because why should I? Why would I dwell on the worst of it when the good is so amazing?
‘This is nice,’ I say, spinning slowly as I take in the common area of the motorhome, done up in plush fabrics and soft neutral colors. ‘How many rooms are there?’
Zaid puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me before I tumble over one of the sofas, setting me back on a straight course to the kitchen. ‘Three bedrooms and two bathrooms,’ he answers. ‘There’s also a small storage room I converted into a gym.’
I’d give an impressed whistle if I could whistle. Instead, I settle for snooping some more, taking in the kitchen’s luxury fixtures and appliances. I even go so far as to peek inside the fridge, finding it stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables, and my mind whirs with ideas of what to cook.
I’m sure Zaid has his set meal plan and the folks in hospitality will make sure his every want and need is taken care of – and mine too – but it might be nice to have a home-cooked meal at some point on the road.
If not this weekend while we’re here for the Spanish Grand Prix, then maybe another during the triple-header that’s about to kick off.
This weekend marks the beginning of three back-to-back weekends of racing, ending with the British Grand Prix at Silverstone, Zaid’s home race.
It’s also the grand prix his family will be attending, and we agreed to spend a few days in London before then so I can finally meet them.
It’s nerve-racking to consider, so there might be a lot of stress cooking happening over the next couple of weeks in an attempt to distract myself.
When I’m done searching the fridge, I open the freezer for good measure.
But instead of finding frozen fruit for smoothies or premade meals like the ones Axel prefers, I’m staring down at rows and rows of gelato containers.
The majority are sour cherry, with a few hazelnut and pistachio thrown in for good measure.
My vision blurs as tears burn the backs of my eyes. These ridiculous hormones make every emotion that much more intense, and my gratitude toward Zaid is pouring up and over, spilling down my cheeks.
‘What’s wrong?’ He’s immediately by my side, hand on my back and head dipped so he can search my face with concerned eyes. ‘Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s made you cry?’
‘You did,’ I say, but it comes out as more of a wail.
He blanches before I can elaborate, horrified. ‘Tell me what I did wrong, princess,’ he pushes. ‘Let me fix it.’
I shake my head and hiccup as I try to control my breathing. ‘You didn’t – you didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Then why are you crying?’
I fling a hand toward the freezer. ‘It’s the gelato.’
‘Okay.’ He nods, processing for a moment. ‘It was clearly too much. I overstepped. I’ll get rid of it, I’ll—’
‘No, it’s perfect,’ I interrupt, finally getting a handle on myself. ‘These are happy tears, I swear.’
He lets out a breath before gathering me to him, a hand cradling the back of my head as I press my damp cheek to his chest. ‘Don’t scare me like that,’ he murmurs. ‘Had me thinking something was seriously wrong.’
I wrap my arms loosely around his waist in return, unable to resist the contact.
He’s been a little more touchy-feely since my ultrasound two days ago, and especially since we spoke to the doctor afterward.
The ultrasound tech didn’t lie when it came to the baby looking perfect, but my doctor broke the news about my problematic placenta and its low-lying position, partially blocking my cervix.
My stomach dropped when she told us, worried this complication could have devastating consequences, but she was quick to reassure me that while, yes, there were risks like bleeding and preterm labor – especially with my ridiculous advanced maternal age – they were low.
It’s left me to cling to her professional optimism and simply be as careful as I can under the circumstances. She suggested scheduling a C-section at thirty-nine weeks, even though she was confident my placenta will move up as the baby grows, but better safe than hemorrhaging in the delivery room.
Besides, by scheduling it on a day when there’s no grand prix business, Zaid can be there.
He’s made it abundantly clear that he wants to be, even though every time he’s brought it up he’s been cautious to add, ‘but only if you want me there.’ The long and short of it is that I absolutely want him with me, because I can’t imagine doing any of this without him any more.
I may not need him, but I sure as hell want him – in far too many ways.
One of those ways is creeping up my spine now as he holds me to him, his hand running up and down my back. It’s meant to be soothing, but it’s making me hyperaware of every nerve ending instead, blazing a path everywhere his touch lands.
Okay, so not only have these hormones caused the wildest of mood swings, they’ve also made me unbearably horny. Specifically for the man I’ve been minorly obsessed with for a good chunk of my life.
The pamphlet Dr. Khan handed over on our way out of the office haunts me with its directives for ‘pelvic rest’ to keep me and the baby safe.
No strenuous activities. Avoid standing for long periods of time.
Be cautious with travel. Avoid sexual intercourse and orgasms. I’m practically praying that when I go back in for my next scan at twenty-eight weeks, they’ll tell me that my traitorous placenta has moved the hell out of the way.
The idea of no orgasms, no matter how they’re brought on, is hell.
Saying goodbye to my vibrator was a tragic affair, but it’s not like I can leave Zaid at home in my bedside drawer to keep him from tempting me.
Zaid has, of course, read the pamphlet too and undoubtedly has it memorized.
He won’t do anything to risk my or the baby’s health, so all these heated feelings are useless, just a reminder of what I can’t have – what we can’t have.
I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels the tension, because there have been times when I swear he’s fighting just as hard as I am to keep his hands to himself.
Right now’s one of them. Maybe he doesn’t notice how low his hand is sliding down my back, or maybe he’s unaware of how our bodies are practically molded together. But I certainly know, and there’s not much more of it I can take before I implode.
‘I’m okay now, I promise,’ I say, lifting my cheek from his chest, but he doesn’t make to release me from his embrace.
I tilt my head back to look at him and find him already staring down at me, gaze too hooded to be oblivious to what’s going on here.
Our faces are so close that it would be so easy to press up on my toes and kiss him.
And judging from the way his eyes drop to my mouth and linger for a beat too long, he knows it.
This pull toward each other is getting difficult to ignore, and the past few weeks we’ve been together haven’t helped. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when we finally decide we can co-parent from different parts of the world. I’m afraid I might not want to let him go by then.
But also . . . will I have to?
We’ve been dancing around what we want from each other, focused on the baby and his last F1 season like we promised we would be.
There’s been a shift, though, and I know we need to talk about it before it builds to something unbearable.
I just don’t know when either of us will be brave enough to take the first step toward that conversation.
Zaid’s lips part like he wants to say something, but there’s a sharp rap on the motorhome’s door before he can get the words out.
He blows out a soft sigh instead, his hold on me relaxing, though he doesn’t completely pull away. ‘That’s Sami,’ he says, nearly grumbling. ‘I have a sponsor event to get to. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?’