21
Penny
As I’m typing a furious ‘as per my last email’ response to Joe, my produce guy, and lip-syncing the words to “No Scrubs” by TLC, the door to Coffee Leaf opens, allowing a gust of warm wind to blow the stack of papers I have sitting beside me on the counter in every direction.
I roll my eyes, because of course that just happened, and look over to greet the person who just walked in, but stop myself when I see him .
“Afternoon, Love,” Beckett says, immediately bending to pick up the documents that landed by his feet.
“Beckett,” I reply dryly, noting the smug grin on his face; the same one he’s been wearing for the past week.
I mean, yes, he got a front-row seat to what I can only describe as a life altering orgasm, but so what? It’s not like he hasn’t seen me come before. There’s no reason for him to still be looking at me like that .
As he approaches the counter, I turn my attention back to my half-finished email and hope like hell that he’ll just put the papers down and head to the kitchen to wash my damn dishes. But, of course, instead of making things easy, he slides them over to my side, stands there, and waits for me to look at him.
“Can I help you?” I ask, doing my best to seem as disinterested in having a conversation as possible.
“Should you be drinking that?”
I look over at the half-empty mug to my right, pick it up, and slowly bring it to my lips. “I dare you to come over here and take it from me.” My tone is anything but playful, and my coffee is decaf. A fact he’d know, if he bothered to ask.
I’m not an idiot; I knew I had to limit my caffeine intake long before he told me so, quoting chapter six of the pregnancy book he’s currently reading while scrubbing my cake pan three days ago.
In saying that, I could damn well do with some artificial energy today of all days.
I’ve been on my feet since 5AM. I’ve baked two extra-large batches of brownies, three chocolate cakes; because my version of simple mud cake is a crowd favourite and usually the first thing to sell out, two-dozen white chocolate macadamia cookies, and enough muffins to take up the entire stainless steel kitchen bench.
The smell of apple and cinnamon is still currently lingering in the air.
He snorts at my warning and shakes his head. “Fine, fine. Forget I said anything. You reckon I can have one before I head on back and tackle the dishes, though?” He pauses and darts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip before adding, “Please?”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t follow the path of his tongue with my eyes. I’m in a constant state of arousal lately, and I blame him for that, considering he impregnated me, so the throbbing between my legs only makes me more pissy with him.
He watches me, as if he’s waiting for me to say no, to fight him, but instead, I simply chuck on a smile, place my mug back down, and say, “Sure thing.”
Beckett looks a little surprised at my response, but satisfied, and he leans against the counter as I turn and head over to the coffee machine.
I make his cappuccino the same way I always do, but instead of capping the takeaway mug when I’m finished, I return to the counter, lid in one hand and cup in the other, and place both down on my side instead of his. Reaching forward, I grab seven sachets of raw sugar from the stainless-steel holder to my left and rip them all open.
Beckett won’t drink a coffee if you so much as stir it with the same spoon you did one with any kind of sweetener added. He hates it that much, which is ridiculous for a man that’ll eat an entire chocolate cake to himself, but whatever.
I expect disgust, repulsion, anger, anything other than the amused glint in his eyes I’m met with as I dump the absurd amount of sugar into his coffee, stir it all in, cap the lid, and then hold it out for him with a smile plastered across my face.
“Your coffee, Sir,” I coo. “Just the way you like it.”
He chuckles and takes the cup from my hand, and then without so much as flinching, he swallows down a large gulp. “Mmmm.” He hums dramatically after taking another sip and making a show of swallowing. “Delicious.”
The glimmer in his eyes doesn’t so much as waver as I roll mine. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re fucking magnificent .”
The wonder lining his tone stuns me, and I stand there, lips parted, eyes wide, trying to think of something, anything , to say in response, that is until he throws me a bone, shrugs his large shoulders, and says, “Well, I better get onto those dishes. Don’t want the boss to catch me standing around flirting with beautiful women while I’m on the clock.” He punctuates the sentence with a wink, and then slowly rounds the front counter.
He may not have reacted the way I wanted him to, and he may have rendered me speechless for a moment there, but I know damn well that he’s going to finish that entire large, overly sugary coffee, just to prove a point. He’ll hate every sip, and that fact has me snapping out of my momentary swoon and smirking down at my computer screen as I reach for my own mug.
I feel the warmth of his body a second before one of his giant hands snakes around my middle and cradles my stomach. “You look beautiful, with your bump on show, Love,” Beckett whispers, running his hand gently down the swell of my stomach, as I stand there, frozen in place, coffee mug pressed to my bottom lip. “So, beautiful.”
I swear, it’s impossible not to let myself slip when he does this kind of shit, and, just for a moment, I forget that he’s not still mine, and I relax back into him, soaking in the comfort his warmth provides. My stomach rolls, as it always does when Beckett speaks, and as usual, he doesn’t feel anything, even though his palm is pressed into my stomach.
It’s so weird, being able to feel my son move when no one else can.
Beckett leans forward, places a kiss on the crown of my head, and I hold my breath, until he removes his hand, and I know he’s gone.
“Lordy,” I whisper, before taking a sip of coffee to wet my now dry mouth.
“Oh, that was so sweet!”
I jump, Evie’s outburst and sudden presence scaring the shit out of me, and rather than swallowing my coffee, I inhale it.
Immediately, my body revolts. I turn, bend at the waist, and brace myself with both hands on my knees as I uncontrollably cough and splutter.
Evie pats me roughly on the back, trying to help me clear my airways, until eventually, I manage to suck in enough air to stop the choking.
“Jesus… Christ ,” I groan, clutching my chest and staring down at the coffee I spat all over the previously spotless floor.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her apology muffled by her hands as she covers her mouth. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I’d believe that, if her face wasn’t turning red and her shoulders weren’t shaking with laughter.
My lungs still haven’t recovered enough to tell her to get fucked, so instead, with one hand cradling my belly, I straighten and look for a cloth.
Baby boy makes his displeasure, or amusement, unsure as to which, known, by flipping around like some kind of fetal acrobat. No one else may be able to feel him yet, but when he gets going, I sure as hell can.
As soon as my eyes land on a bright pink tea towel, on the other side of the counter, I step forward without thinking, and of course my foot slides out from underneath me, lubricated by the combination of coffee, and my spit, on the floor.
“Penny!” Evie’s horrified shriek hits my ears just as I manage to steady myself with the help of the front counter and my other foot.
“Oh, fuuuuuck,” I hiss, frozen in place as searing pain shoots through my pelvis. I try to breathe through it as I clutch my stomach and grip the edge of the front counter, but I can barely catch my breath. The pain only intensifies when I try to move, so I remain in my half-hunched position, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do now. “Ouuuuuch.”
“Beckett!” Evie screams as she rushes to my side, placing one hand on my lower back and the other on my stomach, alongside my own. “Are you okay?” she asks, bending over so she can look me in the eye. “What do you need?”
“I’m okay,” I grit out through clenched teeth. I attempt to smile, to ease her worries, but as I try to move again, the pain shoots up my side and I cry out.
Within seconds, Beckett is at my side. He gently moves Evie out of the way so he can get to me. “I’ve got you,” he says, and then, as if I weigh nothing at all, he scoops me into his arms.
My molars flex from the pressure as I clench my teeth together and pain radiates through my entire body. Thankfully, once I’m firmly cradled against his chest, the sensation fades away to a dull ache.
“Evie, call the hospital and tell him we’re on our way,” he says over his shoulder while walking us around the counter and toward the exit.
“Beckett,” I snap, as he pauses at the front door. “I’m fine. We don’t need to go to the hospital. I just need to pop a Panadol and have a lie down!”
He doesn’t say anything in response, simply turns his body and uses his broad shoulder to push open the door and manoeuvre us both out of the café.
When he stops at the passenger side door of his car, balancing me in one arm so he can open the door with the other, I try again. “I can get in the car myself. Just put me down!”
“Nope,” he says casually. “I’m not going to fuck around with you and ask what’s wrong a hundred times just for you to say nothing. You’re in pain. I can see that, so off we go.”
“This is unnecessary!”
He grunts, places me in the seat, closes the door and rounds the car.
As I shift to reach for the seatbelt, pain radiates through the lower half of my body and I gasp in response, clutching my belly. I wait for the baby to move, to roll, in response, but he doesn’t, and something about that freaks me out. So, instead of continuing to argue with the overly protective man climbing into the driver’s seat, I clench my jaw through the pain, pull my seatbelt across my body, and I let him drive us to the hospital.
“So, the baby’s, okay?” Beckett asks, placing his hand on my stomach as I try to relax back into the far from comfortable hospital bed, both relieved, and beyond exited to go home. Two hours hooked up to a fetal heart rate monitor after having anything and everything checked by several overly chipper nurses is exhausting, and I’m ready to climb into my own bed.
Dr. Norris, the on-call obstetrician, nods as he flicks through the chart that was just hanging on the end of my bed. “The baby is fine. Everything on that front looks good. You’re not spotting. His movements are continuing to strengthen, and his heart rate is strong and steady, but your blood pressure concerns me. That, along with the fact that you’ve pulled a muscle in your groin, tells me that you are pushing yourself too hard, Ms. McIntyre.”
I roll my eyes and look at Beckett, expecting him to do the same, but instead, I’m met with a disapproving scowl. “I’ve tried to tell her that she shouldn’t be on her feet all day, like she is right now, and that she needs to take more time to rest ,” he says to the doctor while looking straight at me.
Dr. Norris nods at Beckett and then turns his gaze back to me, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps it’s time to cut down on your hours at work?”
“You’re both overreacting,” I say defensively. “I rest plenty.” Beckett scoffs, and I turn to him. “I do! But I also own a café, which requires me to stand for some of my day. I can’t just cut down my hours.’”
“ All of your day,” Beckett retorts. “And yes , you can.”
“I see,” Dr. Norris says while scribbling something on my chart. “Well, let’s table this argument for a minute and focus on the issue at hand. We know you’ve managed to pull a muscle in your groin, which isn’t uncommon while pregnant, but obviously painful.”
“Damn straight,” I mumble, gently rubbing a hand over my bump, and avoiding Beckett’s eyes.
“You’re going to need to remain in bed, or at the very least, be off your feet, as much as possible, for the next week or so, until it’s feeling better, and you can get around without experiencing any pain. After that, reducing your hours and re-assessing your current role is the next step in insuring this doesn’t happen again. I see here that you’re booked in for your oral glucose tolerance test, next week, and I’m happy to leave it until then, considering your non-fasted levels came back within the normal range today, and there is no protein in your urine. However, your elevated blood pressure readings, and the fatigue you described when being admitted, can both be symptoms of gestational diabetes. So, until that appointment, I want you to be vigilante. I’ve written down other symptoms to look out for, and if you experience any of them, you will need to return to the hospital. Understood?”
“I’m just tired . I never said I was fatigued-”
“Understood,” Beckett replies for me, as he takes the folded piece of paper Dr. Norris holds out to him. “She’ll be coming home with me today, and I’ll be taking the next week off work to make sure that she rests and that she’s well taken care of.”
“I beg your fucking pardon?” I snap, taken aback by the conversation happening around me.
He doesn’t look at me, but says, “Evie won’t be able to be home if you’re off work. She’ll be needed at the café. Molly has Emma to worry about and the café, and clearly you can’t be trusted on your own to take care of yourself, so it’s happening.”
“Good, good,” Dr. Norris says, nodding as he writes something else on his secretive little chart. “I think that’s for the best. The less she’s on her feet, the quicker she’ll heal. And, if stress is the cause of her elevated blood pressure, a little relaxation should help that come down. I’d like her to be seen again in three to four days to check on her progress, but as she needs to remain as immobile as possible, I can arrange for one of the nurses to come to your home.”
“Fine with me,” Beckett replies with a nod.
“Excellent. The receptionist up front will book that in for you on your way out and enter your address into our system.”
“Um, excuse me?” I ask, waving my hand between the two men. “Do I get a say in any of this?”
Beckett finally looks down at me and places his hand over the one I have resting on my belly. “Sure, Love. You want my bedroom or the spare?”