Page 130 of The Christmas Wife

Sweat beads my brow; pain sears my arm. I reject it, continue with the momentum.

Tick-tock-tick-tock-push-now-push-now.

I count to 30 compressions, then tilt her head, lift her chin up, pinch her nose. I seal my mouth over hers, blow. Check to make sure that her chest rises. Blow again twice. Then back to chest compressions, count to 30, followed by 2 rescue breaths.

"Weston?"

I focus on my mother's face.Come on, come on, breathe.

"Weston, the paramedics are here."

Breathe. Breathe.I continue to push down to the rhythm in my head.Tick-tock-tick-tock-breathe-now-breathe-now.

"Weston!" Arms grab my shoulders. I wince; pain radiates from my injured finger; a coldness coils in my gut. I am pulled back. I lower my injured arm to my side, watch as the paramedics take over, blocking out the view of my mother. "It’s my fault," I gasp.

"What? No." Amelie’s face fills my line of sight. "Weston, it’s nobody’s fault."

"I froze," I mumble under my breath.

"Weston." Amelie cups my cheek, "Baby, look at me."

"The one time I needed to be in control of my senses, and I lost it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe… All I could think of was?—"

"The incident," she whispers. "Oh, baby, stop torturing yourself."

I raise my gaze to her face, "What’s it to you?"

"What?"

"Why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you to leave?"

"Weston, man, get a grip on yourself." Hunter touches my shoulder and something inside of me snaps. I rise to my feet, plant my uninjured fist in his face.

He reels back. Fire burns a trail up my arm from the burst skin on my knuckles. "Fuck." That hurt like a bitch, but what-fucking ever. "You keep the fuck away from her, you hear me."

"Man, you have this all wrong." Hunter puts up his hands; blood drips from his cut lip.Good.

"Weston," Amelie shoves herself between us, "what’s wrong with you?"

"You," I growl. "You're what's wrong."Fuck you, what the hell are you doing? Making sure you cut all ties with her, huh? You could have accepted her tenderness, her compassion, her softness—that always seems to make you unravel, that makes you weak. She makes me want everything I swore I don’t need. Fuck me. And fuck her and,"Fuck all of you." I stumble back.

She grabs hold of my suit jacket. "Weston, please stop," she sobs.

"Look at you," I snarl, "all empathetic and shit, when really all you want is my money. Admit it."

"No."

"Don’t lie, that’s why you accepted my deal. Its why you came here, why you’re still here. Because you think I’ll succumb to your charms? That perhaps I’ll settle down and play happy family with you? Well, you can think again. That’s not what I want."

"You don’t mean it."

"You’re right."Shut the fuck up. you wanker. What the fuck are you saying? Don’t do it; don’t do it."I do want it."

Her chin wobbles, "You do?"

I nod, "Just not with you."

"At least you are being honest." Her features crumple and tears drip from her eyes. She wipes them away, straightens herself, "You may as well admit that you thought up this arrangement, because you wanted to fake a marriage in order to access your trust fund."

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