Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 154(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 154(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Hearing her whimper a few minutes later, I turn to look at her. Whatever she’s dreaming about, it isn’t good. Her body is writhing and her breathing is labored and choppy. “Aubrey.” I reach out and touch her shoulder, and her foot swings out, kicking me in the stomach so hard I grunt.
“No!” she screams, scooting away from me, her eyes wide with fear.
“Jesus,” I whisper, and her eyes focus on me and her hands cover her mouth.
“I’m so…. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” She whispers, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, are you okay?” I ask, and her face pales as she scoots farther away. “I’d never hurt you,” I tell her, watching her hands clench into fists. “Never,” I repeat.
“I need to go.” She jumps off the couch.
“Sweetheart.” I reach out to grab her, but she dodges my hand.
“I’m so sorry… so, so sorry.” She grabs her sweatshirt, and before I can stop her, she’s gone, slamming the door behind herself.
“Fuck.” I rub my hands down my face then lean forward, wrapping my palm around the back of my neck. My eyes catch on her sneakers in front of my couch as someone knocks on the door. Hoping it’s her, I get up to answer it, but when I swing the door open, disappointment settles in my gut. It’s not her; it’s our dinner. I quickly pay then drop the bag in the kitchen before picking up her shoes.
Knocking on Shelly’s apartment door, I wait only a moment for it to open and am a little surprised when Aubrey pokes her head out.
“You forgot your shoes,” I tell her quietly, holding them out to her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking them and starting to shut the door as I hear them hit the floor with a thud.
“Your food is upstairs. Do you want me to bring it to you? Or you could come eat dinner with me.”
“I… I’m not hungry,” she says, looking up at me, and her stomach takes that moment to gurgle loudly. I raise a brow. “Okay, I’m hungry, but I….” Her cheeks get pink and I take a step closer to her, watching her eyes widen.
“Don’t be embarrassed. One day, you can tell me about what happened, but right now, I’d just like it if you had dinner with me.”
“Are you sure? After what happened, I—”
“Don’t think about that,” I cut her off. “Just come up and eat. Please.”
Nodding, she steps out of her apartment and closes the door behind her, and I notice she slipped on a pair of flip-flops. I take her hand, leading her back up the stairs to my place, then settle her on the couch before going to the kitchen to grab the bags of food. When I return to the living room, I can tell she’s still embarrassed about what happened, but I know there’s nothing I can do about that right now. It’s going to take time for her to realize she can trust me.
“Tell me a little about yourself,” I say, handing her the food while setting a glass full of orange juice on the coffee table in front of her.
“There isn’t much to tell.” She shrugs.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, setting my feet on the coffee table, lounging back, and hoping if I’m relaxed, it will help her relax too.
“Just a few months,” she says between bites. “I was just nine-weeks pregnant when I got here, and now I’m almost due.” She rubs her hand over her stomach unconsciously.
“Where’s the father?” I question quietly, and her bottom lip goes between her teeth as her eyes meet mine.
“Hopefully dead,” she whispers, catching me off guard by the fierceness of that statement.
“Does he know about the baby?” I murmur, and her head shakes side to side.
Studying her for a moment, I see there is something there, something ugly, and it takes everything in me not to drag her to my lap and hold her while she tells me about it.
“Eat, baby,” I mutter, nodding toward her bowl. “You can save that story for another day.” Her chin wobbles as she nods. I turn up the volume on the television and sit back, pretending to watch the show on the TV but actually keeping an eye on her as she digs into her food.
“Thank you. That was delicious,” she says, and I turn my head to look at her and smile as she sets her bowl on the coffee table.
“My mom tried to teach me to cook. It never worked out. If I wasn’t able to eat out, I’d probably starve, since the only things I know how to make are mac-and-cheese, hotdogs, and eggs. I suck in the kitchen otherwise,” I tell her, watching as she tucks her feet under her.
“My parents are Irish and they both love to cook. Thankfully, they shared their talent with me.”