Page 29 of Nine Months to Love
“They have pills for that, you know. I wonder where we could go to get them?” He snaps his fingers, the sound sharp in the tense air between us. “Oh, right. An OBGYN.”
“I don’t need pills. I’ll just wait it out.” Even as I say it, another wave of nausea rolls through me, making my skin clammy.
“You need to be able to keep something down. You barely ate anything last night. This morning, you only managed toast.” He crosses his arms, and the fabric of his charcoal shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. “And half of that ended up in the toilet.”
“Are you spying on me?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “If you won’t talk to me, I have no other choice.”
“How about the choice not to be an ass?”
“I believe in achievable goals.”
There’s a stray lock of dark hair falling against his forehead, slightly mussed from the morning breeze. I hate that I notice. Even now, when I want to scratch his eyes out, my body still responds to him—that familiar tug low in my belly, the awareness that prickles across my skin. Does he have to look so hot even when he’s being irritating as hell?
“You can cancel the appointment. I’m not going.”
“I understand that you’re pissed at me. But don’t take it out on the baby.” His tone shifts, turning velvety, persuasive. “We need to make sure our little one is doing okay.”
He’s hitting me with both barrels now—charmandlogic. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Fine!” I cry out in frustration. “But I don’t want to talk on the drive there.”
He smirks, and it’s infuriating how good he looks doing it—that curl of his lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. “How thoughtful of you. You saved me the trouble of having to ask for the same thing.”
My hands ball into fists. “Are you trying to be an ass or does it just flow from you naturally?”
“I’d answer you, but we’re not talking, remember?”
He walks away and I flip him the bird behind his back. It makes me feel better, even if he missed it entirely. Muttering furiously under my breath—a string of creative insults my mother would wash my mouth out for—I grab my purse and follow him through the manor.
The hallways feel longer today, each one a tunnel of beige walls and expensive artwork that blurs in my peripheral vision. Or maybe it’s just that I’m trailing behind him like some sullen teenager being dragged to detention.
We get to the circular driveway where his Maserati is parked, the engine already purring. The black paint gleams in the sun, every curve of it screaming money and power.
I can’t even explain the degree to which it pisses me off. He’s so confident he left the car running while he came to get me. He knew I’d cave.
True to his word—or mine, I’m not even sure which—we drive in complete silence to a private clinic just outside Boston. The interior of the car feels thick and oppressive, filled with all the things neither of us is saying. Unspoken words pile up in the space between us, growing heavier with each mile. I keep my eyes on the passing scenery, watching trees give way to suburban sprawl give way to the polished steel and glass of expensive medical facilities.
The leather seat is cool against my bare legs. The air conditioning hums. Stefan’s cologne—something dark and woodsy with notes of bergamot—fills the confined space, making it impossible to forget he’s there.
Not that I could forget anyway.
Astoria Clinic is exactly what I expected. The lobby is all marble floors, tasteful abstract paintings on the walls, fresh white flowers at the reception desk. A clinic I would have loved to run one day, back when my dreams were a little more complicated.
Now, they feel reduced to basics.
Stay alive. Keep your baby safe. Don’t let your feelings for him cloud your judgment.
Simple in theory. Unbelievably difficult to uphold day to day.
Stefan parks right in front of the “No Parking” sign—bright red letters that might as well be invisible to him—and beats me to my own door, opening it before I can. A blast of warm air hits me as I step out. I get out without so much as a “thank you” and stride ahead of him into the clinic.
If he’s going to treat me like a glorified prisoner, then I can get away with treating him like my driver.
My very hot driver who’s very much off-limits right now.
Not that my hormones have gotten the memo.
