Page 75 of Wanting Mr Black

My eyes lift to the bathroom mirror in front of me. I should be relieved. Then, why does the woman staring back at me look so disappointed?

It’s too soon.

I’m too young.

I’m not ready to be a mum.

I wash my face and brush my teeth, piling my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, busying myself to distract from the pang in my chest as the ache in my stomach grows, reminding me that there’s no baby in there.

It’s a good thing, I tell myself, pulling on my denim cutoffs and slipping an off-the-shoulder pale pink jumper over my head.

The rumble of a low male voice echoes down the hallway as I approach the living area. Art leans forward across the kitchen counter, his mobile glued to his ear. He looks up when I enter.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” he says, swiftly ending the call.

My curiosity is piqued by his abrupt manner. “Who was that?”

He chucks his phone down onto the marble and drags a hand across his jaw. There’s a deep crease across his forehead, and he looks uncharacteristically stressed. “Work.”

The tiny, nagging voice starts up in the back of my head, and I find myself wanting to know more. “The club?” I press, walking round the counter and switching on the kettle.

“Mmhmm.”

Do I really want the details?I’ve just about gotten used to the fact that he owns a strip club, but I’m still not crazy about the idea, and if it’s about the drug dealers, I’ll just worry about him having to sort it out.

I open an overhead cupboard and pull out two mugs. “Would you like a coffee?” I ask, popping the top off the metal storage canister with one hand while rifling around in the drawer for a spoon with the other.

When he doesn’t reply, I glance across to see him still leaning against the counter, tapping his fingers against the top, looking totally distracted and deep in thought.

“Is everything okay?”

He snaps out of it and straightens. “Yes. Sorry, I was miles away.”

“Would you like a coffee?” I repeat.

“No, thanks. Something’s cropped up that I need to go and sort.” He rubs a hand through his hair, and that distracted look is back.

I frown. “Now? But it’s only just gone lunchtime.”

“I know. I won’t be long.”

Tension appears in his shoulders as he shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and goes to leave the kitchen. He’s certainly wound up about something. Either way, I feel I should tell him the news before he goes.

“I’m not pregnant.”

He stops, and his gaze softens as he looks at me for a long moment, letting the news sink in. “Are you okay?”

I’m not sure how I feel. I give a despondent shrug and shake my head as he links his hands in mine and gently pulls me towards him.

“Talk to me, Sophie.”

“It’s too soon, and I’m totally not ready …”

“But?” he says, clearly sensing I’m not completely okay.

“I think I convinced myself I was, and now, it’s ridiculous that I’m sad over something I didn’t even want.”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

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