25. Chapter 25
L eaving the OB office feels strange this time. Dr. Sinclair says things are progressing, but her parting words didn’t leave me with any relief. “Your body’s doing a great job getting ready. Baby girl could be here in a few days, or it could be a week or two. ”
What does she mean, it could be tomorrow or a week or two? How does one prepare for the arrival of a baby with such a wide timeframe?
Luckily, baby girl is still head down, measuring on track, and her heartbeat is strong. My blood pressure still looks great, so there aren’t any great concerns. Now, we wait.
By the time I get home, it’s a little after three. The sun spills through the windows, and the apartment smells faintly of laundry detergent and the peach-scented candles I lit before I left.
Dropping my purse on the table, I kick off my sneakers and groan as I sink onto the couch. My lower back and hips have been screaming lately. It’s made everything difficult. Dr Sinclair recommended seeing a chiropractor, but I never got around to finding an office.
Shifting until I find some semblance of comfort, I video-call Ridge.
With it being the middle of the afternoon, there’s a good chance he’ll ignore it and call back later.
Our check-ins haven’t happened as often as they used to, with both of us being busy and playing endless rounds of phone tag that end with a few texts here and there.
I click on the TV while the call rings through. I expect it to ring for a bit, but Ridge answers on the first buzz.
“About damn time,” he grumbles, wiping grease from his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Hello to you, too.” I grin. “What’re you doing?”
He flips the camera around and reveals a partially disassembled Yamaha sitting center stage in the garage.
“Building a rocket.” He smirks, making me chuckle. “What else?”
There’s a sudden clang of tools falling somewhere in the garage, and then a voice, bright and biting, chimes in. “No, he’s messing up a rocket.”
“Shut up and go away,” Ridge mutters before she steps into the frame.
There’s shuffling on his end before a stunning blonde pops into the frame. Her face beams as she waves at me. “Hey, Sav.”
I shake my head as realization dawns. “Hi, Sienna. Oh my gosh, how are you?”
It takes me a second to place her—Sienna, Ridge’s new stepsister. Recognition hits like a light bulb turning on. Aunt Bethany married her father last fall, which is part of the reason I needed to go home last winter. I had only met her at the wedding, so it took me a minute to realize who she was.
“I’m good. As long as this one”—she elbows Ridge, and he grunts—“doesn’t burn the garage down.”
My eyebrow quirks. But it’s Ridge who speaks first. “Me?” He points to his chest, cigarette nestled between his two fingers. “You’re the disaster in here.”
Sienna rolls her eyes, and Ridge turns his attention to the camera. “I’ve kicked this woman out of my space twice this week for spilling shit.”
“Well, if you would clean after yourself…”
“It’s my garage,” he shoots back.
“Spilling things wouldn’t be a big deal if you didn’t smoke like a chimney,” she retorts, her voice growing an octave.
Their banter bounces back and forth as if this is a normal day for them. But it’s their crackling energy that has my attention locked in. My cousin tries to ignore it, but I can tell he’s watching her. His subtle glances aren’t sneaky at all.
“You two are cute,” I say, stressing the word “cute.”
Ridge’s face curls in disgust. “We’re not cute,” he retorts. “She’s a menace.”
She smirks. “Says the guy who texts me all day to check on my safety.”
“I’m being polite,” he grumbles around his cigarette, letting out a thick plume of smoke.
I laugh. “Ridge, I would not classify you as polite.”
“Right,” Sienna agrees with me.
He throws a greasy rag at her, and she squeals. “I hate you.”
She catches it and tosses it back, which has the corners of his mouth twitching. “Whatever you say.”
I say nothing as I stare at the two of them. Ridge Holycross might have found his match, and he’s going to get into a heap of trouble. They’re doomed.
“Well,” I say, trying not to show my amusement. “I’ll let you two get back to whatever”—I gesture my hand in a circular motion—“this is.”
“It’s noth—” Ridge starts. His face turns red from being flustered as Sienna chuckles.
“Byeeee!” I sing-song and end the call before he can finish.
The second I set down my phone, my stomach tightens—not super painful, but enough to steal my breath for a second. I press a hand over the top of my bump and try to breathe through it, but a grunt leaves my chest. “Oof, that’s the worst one yet.”
As the tightening subsides, I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and pull it over me before curling up for a little nap.
When I wake again to more tightening in my stomach, the house is dark. The only light spills in from the kitchen, where we keep a small lamp on once the sun goes down. Not that there’s a lot of overhead light in the apartment, but I’m a lamp girl. Big lights are the worst.
Rubbing the tightness away from my belly, I blink against the grogginess. I grunt as I roll on my back, disoriented until a warm touch trails a path across the arch of my foot.
I jolt at the contact, only to spot Grant sitting on the couch near my feet, one hand holding an e-Reader, the other tracing the arch of my foot.
At the contact, I groan with pleasure. “What time is it?”
“After ten,” he says softly. His voice is husky from not speaking.
“How long have you been here?”
“A little while. Didn’t want to wake you while you were actually sleeping.”
Not wanting to break our connection, but no longer able to lie on my back, I adjust the pillows behind my back until I’m in a sitting position. Grant places his e-Reader on the cushion and scoots closer to me, taking my foot back in his grasp.
“How was game prep? Feeling good about tomorrow?”
He nods. “It was productive. I pointed out a few things we missed earlier this week.”
I study him. Even in the dimly lit apartment, I can see the exhaustion marring his features. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired, worried.
“You doing okay?”
He hesitates before nodding. “I was going to ask you.”
My eyebrows raise. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” He nudges my foot playfully. “I wanted to check. Make sure you’re still happy with everything—living here, us—and you know, you’re about to be a mom.”
I want to say yes instantly, but I hesitate.
Am I okay?
My silence has his hand pausing where it was rubbing my swollen ankle.
“Peach…”
I let out a sigh. “I’m happy with you, Grant. All of this is a little unorthodox, but please don’t question my feelings or love for you. This is just a lot.”
Grant shifts closer, placing my legs on his lap as he begins to rub my calves, making me moan.
“You know, I never knew my dad. He left before I was born, and my mom—” My throat tightens, and I pause.
“She was…for lack of better words, a shitty mom. Some days, she was around, then gone for weeks. I learned early never to count on her for anything. I was eight when she started leaving me home alone for sleepovers. Eight…can you imagine?”
He shakes his head, and I know he’s telling the truth. Our upbringings couldn’t be more opposite, as if our childhoods were written in completely different languages.
“I’ll never forget the first time I realized my mom was different from other moms. We were in the grocery store, shopping for sale items. She saw a man farther down the aisle, dug in her purse for her lipstick, and told me to wait where the carts go.
There was a bench, so I did what she asked.
” I suck in a lungful of air. “She left me inside the store to go screw some random guy.”
“Jesus,” he huffs, running a hand down his face.
“The worst part? The clerk paged her over the speakers, and she never came back. I waited in a manager’s office for the police. When she finally showed up, she played it off like I had run away and she’d been searching for me.” I scoff.
“What the fuck, Sav?” Grant grips my leg as if he can absorb my pain.
“She was a master at manipulating people, and I got scolded by the officer for leaving my mom’s side. That was the first on a long list of things I had to deal with.”
“You know you’re not your mother, right?”
I nod, and something wet hits my arm. Reaching up, I swipe my fingers across my cheeks and realize the moisture came from me. I didn’t even notice I had started crying.
“I know I’m not her, but I don’t—” I hiccup the sob I was trying to keep hidden. “I don’t want to turn out like her.”
“Oh, baby.” Grant’s voice is soft as he inches up the couch. It’s awkward, but I shift until he’s sitting beside me and pulling me into his chest. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, and he holds me like I’m made of glass.
“You’ll never be her, Peach. You’re too good a person to ever resemble her behaviors,” Grant whispers.
I let the tears flow. It’s therapeutic in a way I didn’t know I needed.
These tears have been bottled for years, aging like fine wine, waiting for a chance to break free.
This is for the six-year-old abandoned in the grocery store, for the eight-year-old left behind for a weekend while my mom was with a new guy, for the twelve-year-old forced to navigate puberty on her own.
For years, I had to figure out a world I knew nothing about.
I’m lucky I’m as normal as I am after all the shit she put me through.
“I’m happy, though,” I finally whisper. “I’m happy her faults led me here. It led me to you.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re safe, Peach. You’ll always be safe with me.”
Grant Campbell isn’t like the rotation of men who came into my life. He’s everything I ever wished for. He’s my very own Prince Charming when I’ve only ever seen the villain. And not one of those hot, morally grey villains I read about in dark romances.
I believe every damn word he says.