Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
H arper
You’d think Laurent’s – or the dickwipe as he shall from this point onwards be referred to – little impromptu visit would put me in a bad mood for this exhibition opening at the gallery. In fact, it does the opposite. I may be slightly sick in the head, but I really enjoyed the sight of him with blood running down his chin, his usually perfectly coiffed hair all messed up and shock radiating in his eyes. If I could go back in time, instead of crying my eyes out when I found out about his cheating, I’d damn well have punched him myself.
Nope, Laurent’s attempts to grovel on the doorstep, followed by being able to rub in his face how happy I am, along with the punches from Daxton, have placed me in a thoroughly delightful mood. I’m not even nervous about this gallery exhibition like I was at our house. I’m positively buzzing.
Derrick has been sucking up to me ever since the gallery robbery. He’s clearly terrified I’m going to tell everyone about his cowardly display. Daxton, Owen and Wyatt have been desperate to ruin the dude’s reputation. But I like this job and besides, Sylvie and I have been using it to our advantage, both scoring pay raises, additional vacation time and barring him from entering the gallery unless we give him permission first.
Tonight we have given him permission as long as he brings all his rich friends. Along with all of Sylvie’s contacts, it means the gallery is packed by the time we arrive. In fact, I’ve never seen it so busy and only about a tenth are my friends, the rest are strangers – art lovers, buyers and one or two journalists as well.
Derrick spots the four of us as we walk through the door.
“Ahhh, the star of the show,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder and kissing my cheek in a respectful manner. “The art is fantastic.” He shakes his head. “Who knew a little omega could paint such…” He trails off. “Anyway, Sylvie’s already sold several pieces.”
“She has?”
“She has,” Sylvie confirms, coming up behind me and slipping her arm through mine. “Come on, if your alphas can spare you for five minutes, I’d like to introduce you to a few people.”
Sylvie guides me around the gallery, stopping in front of various guests. Among them is a couple who come into the gallery to peruse the artwork at least once a week, a pack who own a chain of hotels and are always looking for art to hang on the walls, and an elderly woman in a wig and sunglasses who I’m pretty sure was a film star back in the day.
I don’t feel shy anymore. I talk honestly about my art, what it represents, how I hope it will make the viewer feel. They ask me about my techniques, my plans for the future. The film star even says I will be an artist she watches from now on.
I’m smiling my head off by the time Sylvie leans in and says, “Have you seen who that is over there?”
I follow her gaze, half expecting to spot Laurent again. Instead, my eyes land on Christopher Gourmet, the Rockview Gazette ’s Art Critic, dressed in one of his brightly colored suits and oversized glasses. He’s famous across the world for his brutally honest reviews. In fact, his columns have been known to propel or crush a fledgling artist’s career.
“Oh geez,” I say, “who invited him?”
“Me,” Sylvie says.
“Just when I was starting to feel confident.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’ve known him for years. I know what he likes. And he’s going to love your work.”
She gives my arm an encouraging squeeze and we make our way towards him, weaving through the crowd.
“Christopher, darling,” Sylvie says, embracing him. “I’m so pleased you could make it.”
“You know I’d never miss one of your exhibitions.” His eyes slide to me. “And is this the artist in question?”
He holds his hand towards me, scrutinizing me through the tinted lenses of his glasses. I step forward, hold out my hand and … liquid floods between my feet and splats down onto the wooden floor.
Sylvie and Christopher jump back, some of the liquid still managing to splash Christopher’s expensive-looking shoes.
I stare down at the puddle I’ve just created, convinced, along with the swollen ankles, inability to see my own toes and new habit of snoring at night, I’ve now lost control over my own bladder.
Forget everything that has ever happened to me before, this – this! – is the moment I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. Especially as I swing my head around looking for an escape exit only to find everyone staring back at me.
I freeze. My cheeks are on fire.
And then I feel the reassuring hand of Wyatt on my shoulder.
“Harper, honey,” he says gently, “we gotta get you to the hospital. Come on.”
Yes, the hospital. People who have suddenly lost control of their bladders probably need to go to the hospital.
“Is the baby coming?” Christopher Gourmet asks.
“Babies,” I say automatically and then it hits me. “My waters!” I breathe in relief.
Oh thank god. I haven’t wet myself.
Okay, this is still far from ideal and pretty darn embarrassing. But not as embarrassing as it could have been.
Then it hits me.
“My waters!” I tug on Wyatt’s arms. “But that means …”
“The babies are coming,” he says with a nod.
“But … but … they aren’t due for another four weeks! I’m not ready to have these babies yet.”
“Sweetheart,” Wyatt says gently, “there isn’t a choice in the matter. Your waters have broken, these babies are coming.”
“But I’m only eight months!”
“Twins come early,” he says. “There isn’t a lot of room in there any longer.”
“But are they going to be okay?” I say gripping his arm.
“They’re going to be just fine, sweetheart. And so are you. Come on, let’s go.”
Then before I know it, I’m being whipped out of the gallery by my three alphas and into a waiting cab.
The driver takes one look at me and my oversized belly and frowns.
“She’s not going to have that in here, is she?”
“Not if you step on it,” Owen says, bundling me into the car before the dude can change his mind.
The driver obviously takes Owen’s word as gospel, because he’s screeching away before we’ve slammed the doors and hurtling around every corner.
“Slow down!” Daxton barks.
“Yes, nothing is actually happening yet,” I tell him. Then glance towards my alphas. “Shouldn’t I be having contractions or something?”
“Not always,” Wyatt says. “Sometimes it takes a bit of time to get started. They’ll probably give you twenty-four hours.”
“And then what?”
“Induction.”
I chew on the inside of my cheeks, rubbing my hands around and around my belly as Wyatt rubs his hand over my back and Owen massages my shoulders. I thought I had more time for this. The nursery isn’t quite finished. I don’t have any diapers. And the basket for the baby to sleep in isn’t arriving for another week.
“Oh,” I squeak, making the cab driver swing around in his seat and glare at me in alarm, “I don’t have my hospital bag.”
Luckily, Molly made me pack it a week ago – even though I told her it was way too early. It has my snacks in there, my nightie, one of my Squishmallows, some cute little outfits for the babies and all the other things I’m going to need.
“It’s okay,” Daxton says, already typing away on his phone. “I’ll ask your mom to bring it up to the hospital.”
“She’s going to be frantic.”
“Then I’ll get my dad to do it,” Daxton says as the cab swings up in front of the hospital and screeches to a halt.
“Good luck,” the driver says, as my three alphas help me out of the car – which is pretty tricky when your belly is the size of a large watermelon. “And if you’re looking for a name – mine’s Harold.”
“We’ll bear it in mind,” I say. “What if there’s something wrong with the babies?” I say as my alphas walk me through the hospital and into an elevator. “Or what if something goes wrong with the birth?”
Owen stabs the buttons and turns to face me. “Harper, honey, everything is going to be just fine. You have three alphas all medically trained. We won’t let anything go wrong.”
The doors ping and slide open as I nod. Down the corridor I can hear a woman wailing and from somewhere closer, a baby crying.
Wyatt goes and books us in at the reception gate and then we’re ushered through into a private room by a male nurse with an impressively bushy ginger mustache that matches the hair on his head.
“Hi Harper,” he says, “I’m Densil. I hear your waters burst.”
“Yep, about half an hour ago. It was pretty spectacular.”
He chuckles. “But no contractions?”
“Uh uh.”
“Okay, let’s get you all comfortable on the bed and we’ll hook you up to the monitor to see what’s going on with those babies of yours. The doctor will be along in a moment.”
With the help of three pairs of hands, I scramble up onto the hospital bed and lie back against the cushions as the nurse straps cables to my belly.
“Nice dress,” he comments. “Were you out doing something special? These babies do have a way of interrupting our plans.”
“We were attending her first art exhibition,” Owen says proudly. “Harper’s an artist.”
“Ooo,” the nurse says, “how glamorous! Although, would you like to get changed into something more comfortable, sweetie, once we’ve finished the monitoring? Not many women choose to give birth in their party dresses – although it does happen.”
“I think the dress is already trashed,” I say, peering at my alphas and trying to read their expressions. All three have their eyes glued to the monitor screen, clearly reading the data. I’m about to ask them what it means, when the door opens and my doctor strolls inside with an iPad in her hand.
“Hello, Harper, you’re here a little earlier than we expected,” she says.
“My waters broke,” I explain.
“So I hear.” She walks over to the monitor and starts reading the data as well.
My heart is beating so loudly in my ears it’s blocking out the whirring noise of the monitor.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Dr. Robinson looks back towards me.
“Everything looks just fine with the babies.” I let out a huge sigh of relief. “And it looks like you may be having some very minor contractions.”
“Really?” I say, gaping at her like she’s lost her mind. “I don’t feel a thing.”
She smiles. “Very minor ones but that means things are moving in the right direction. Looks like you’ll be meeting your babies soon.”