Page 128 of Branded
Wasn’t going to happen back then.
Wasn’t going to happen now, not with two babies in my belly, stretch marks already erupting on my belly, and the worst gas in the history of gas.
And that didn’t even include the night sweats, the belly button that had turned into one of those button things that popped up when a turkey was done cooking, and a difficulty staying awake past nine at night.
I was a total catch.
Yup. Totally.
“Beth?”
I blinked, focused back on his eyes. There was a note of something there, and it wasn’t his usual annoyance, but before I could really suss out what it meant, it was gone, his gaze going hard again.
“Don’t. Move.”
My breath slid out, disappointment battling with annoyance.
But since it felt nice—just a little bit—to be in his arms, I stayed in place as he shifted to the side, his arm clamping around my middle.
That was nice, so nice that I didn’t immediately process what all that shifting had wrought.
I did, however, hear him say, “Marcel. Raph. I need you to meet me at the hospital. I’m with Beth and she collapsed at CeCe’s and?—”
“What?” I shook my head, trying to sit up, and when his arm just tightened again, keeping me in place, I began waving my arms. “I’m fine. We don’t need to go to the hos?—”
“She’s conscious now. Was maybe out for thirty seconds. No,” he added, seemingly to a question that Marcel had asked. “Didn’t hit her head or stomach. I caught her before she could and—” He paused, listening, and then his eyes sliced to mine.
“Any bleeding or cramping?” he asked.
Fuck. Now that was embarrassing.
“Let me talk to him,” I said, putting my hand out for the cell.
His eyes sliced to mine, the pale blue depths having gone full Ice Man. “Any bleeding or cramping?” he repeated, enunciating each word in a way that had icy fingers sliding down my spine.
“No,” I bit out.
“No.” A pause. “Right. We’ll be there in fifteen.”
He clicked off, shoved his cell in his pocket, but didn’t drop his arm. Nope, he kept that big old tree trunk wrapped around me, right beneath my breasts, reminding me that we were currently—and had been from the moment the babies had implanted themselves into my uterus—needy bitches.
“I’m—”
“Not another fucking word,” he snapped, standing with me in his arms. “Pru and Marcel went through too much to have these babies for you to jeopardize?—”
“I—”
“Not. One. More. Word.”
Temper.
Mine.
It was hitting the red zone, and considering that I’d spent my career in fundraising and had dealt with a lot of fucking annoying people and the shit they could shovel on me, that was saying something. Considering that I’d been trying to get this man to like me, to pay attention to me, to touch me for the better part of three years, that was saying more than something.
That was saying everything.
I didn’t often hit the red zone or lose my temper.
