One #3
“Nothing yet? Then let me continue. I saw a prenatal appointment on your calendar—briefly—of course, because it switched to a pedicure five minutes later. I guess that explains your wardrobe choices lately.”
I was genuinely fucked as I watched him narrow his eyes and pursed his lips, barely holding back some emotion I couldn’t read.
“But the interesting thing about this appointment was it distinctly said Baby Bailey/Tibbs, and since I only have a sister, the logical conclusion is that you are pregnant with my child, Jordan.”
My neck prickled with heat, and I rubbed it, finding the skin damp at my hairline. Avery clearly was in the wrong profession. He should be an inspector, detective, investigator, or something similar with the cool way he delivered his conclusions.
“So, blocking off my calendar for the day?”
“Was to ensure we had ample time to discuss the implications of you being pregnant with my child and not bothering to share the news.”
The volume of his voice remained the same, but the declaration—putting the parentage out in the open—was deafening in the silence of my office.
I didn’t know what to say. My notecards with bullet points backed by facts and statistics were at home, safely under my pillow, where I reviewed them each night before falling into a restless sleep.
It was strangely comforting, knowing my withholding of information was out in the open.
The ball of tension and stress lodged behind my breastbone slowly untangled, bleeding to quiet acceptance.
The silence stretched on as I waited for his verdict—maybe this was what people meant by feeling entirely at peace before death.
I felt prepared for whatever blow he would rain down on me.
All the times I’d run through the conversation, it always revolved around me telling him, not the other way around, and his reaction was always between jubilation and straight denial.
I was not prepared for absolute silence, but then again, I never imagined being caught in—not a lie—but a concealment of the truth.
I thought I was too smart to get caught.
“You don’t need to be involved.”
I’d usually picture Avery jumping to his feet so fast the chair behind him would crash to the floor before he yelled it was out of the question.
That he’d be damned if he thought I would raise his child without him.
But this creaking silence, as he gripped the leather armrests and the narrowing of his eyes, had me thankful my stomach was empty because the decaffeinated dirt water was gurgling dangerously.
“Is that what you want?”
I licked my lips and parted them, relaxing my jaw and fully prepared to utter yes—when I paused.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted, and my lists and spreadsheets were supremely unhelpful in assisting me with the decision.
I snapped my jaw closed, frowning in my emotionally heightened state when he answered for me.
“I want to be—would like to be. Involved, that is.”
“With the baby?”
“Yes, and the pregnancy. All of it.” His expression shifted to something else I couldn’t decipher, and I glanced at my hand, realizing I’d ripped my pinky nail to shreds while we danced around the awkward as fuck conversation.
“You’re taking this better than I thought,” I said, suspicious of the entire situation.
“Yes. Well, I’ve had the last thirty or so hours to muddle my way through a gin-induced stupor and have realized this mild inconvenience is exactly what I needed to reevaluate my priorities.”
“Okay. And your priorities—”
“Remain unchanged,” he said, waving me off like he wasn’t dancing around the elephant in the room and talking in convoluted riddles.
“Well. Thank you, dear assistant, for that riveting explanation. But if there’s nothing else . . .”
I stood, bracing my hand on my lower back and groaning. The lack of food had caused a pulsing, pounding headache between my eyes—and I had to pee again. He needed to leave, and I pointed to the door in what I hoped was finality and dropped my shoulder, closing my eyes.
I breathed through my nose, holding the oxygen in my lungs and counting to three when a firm hand pressed against my lower back. The hand was warm and hard, digging into the tightened muscles, making me let out a strangled moan of pleasure.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, pushing my hair away from my neck to stand behind me.
He gently guided my shoulders further down so he could continue to massage my spine, dragging his fingers across the tired and tightened muscles.
“I’m pissed it took you so long to tell me, but I know you do things on your own timetable, regardless of what others think. ”
I nodded, unsure if the emotion lodged in my throat was relief or nausea.
“There is one thing that needs to happen, though.”
“What’s that?” I asked, taking one hand off the desk to brace it on his thigh as his fingers slowly danced across my skin.
It felt too good—he felt too good, and I let my mind wander to that blissful space where all my problems seemed obsolete.
Until he leaned down, brushing his lips across my earlobe and whispered.
“You’ll have to marry me, Jordan Bailey.”