Page 50 of You've Always Been Mine

“Is that why you didn’t text back all day?” He doesn’t look up, but I can sense his subtle concern. Which is understandable considering I’d texted him throughout my work day just last week.

This would be the perfect opportunity to bring up what I need to tell him—to explain how I limited our conversation today because I was nervous about what I needed to say.

But I chicken out. “Yeah, that’s why.”

“Hank giving you any more trouble?”

“No.” Other than the fact I received an email from HR today, requesting an interview to discuss my romantic relationship with a client. It took all my self-control not to call up Hank and let him have it. “He didn’t even come in today.”

Derek scoffs. “I can’t believe that guy is the director.”

“Me either.”

The timer goes off. I peek at the pizza. It’s perfect. I turn off the oven and bend down to slide the pizza stone off the top rack.

“Son of a bitch.” Something clatters against the counter.

I pull back before touching the hot stone and whirl around. “Oh, no!” I take in the crimson blood dripping from Derek’s hand. He clutches the wound to his chest, glaring at the knife lying by an uncut cucumber.

“Here.” I grab a tea towel and shove it towards him.

“Thanks.” He wraps the fabric around his palm with a hiss.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault I’m a klutz. Dad would be ashamed.”

Uncle Eric took up cooking as a hobby when we were kids. He always tried to drag us into the kitchen to help him, but other than Avery, none of us were interested.

Derek pulls back the fabric and scowls. “Do you have any antiseptic and bandages?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I spin in a circle. “Let me just… I’ll go grab?—”

“Just tell me where it is, and I’ll get it,” Derek says, already backing out of the kitchen. “You need to take out the pizza.”

“Oh, right.” I totally forgot about the pizza. “Okay. The stuff should be in the bathroom. The top drawer on the right.”

“Got it.” Derek leaves, and I carefully remove the pizza stone from the still-hot oven. I let it sit on the stovetop to cool a bit before I cut it into slices.

I’m rinsing off the knife that cut Derek, debating if I should scrap the salad and start fresh. I don’t see any traces of blood in the glass bowl, but the thought of accidentally ingesting any makes me queasy. I toss the half-made salad into the trash and get new ingredients from the fridge.

“What is this?”

I look up from where I’m rinsing the lettuce and tomatoes.

Derek holds up a strip of shiny, black-and-white photographs. Only… they aren’t photographs.

My entire body goes still, and time seems to slow down. My heartbeat accelerates, and I can feel my pulse in my temple.I can’t remember the last time I looked at those images. It was probably a month after the procedure when I was still heartbroken over how things turned out.

But seeing Derek holding the ultrasound photos brings it all back.

The shock.

The fear.

The acceptance.

The happiness.

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