Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Paige cries for a few minutes, and once she’s calmed down, she sits up and excuses herself to the restroom to freshen up. While she does that, I move back to my seat and let the waiter know we’ll order once she returns, in case she doesn’t want to stay. But when she comes back, she tells me she’s starved, so we order.
Once the waiter is gone, Paige takes a piece of bread from the basket and, after taking a bite, grins. “I can’t believe you haven’t bolted yet,” she says with a small laugh.
It’s meant as a joke, but I answer her seriously, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Hell, I couldn’t even make it two months of respecting your wishes before I was seeking you out.”
She huffs a laugh and nods. “So, what now? I mean, you’re here, but it doesn’t change the fact that you live hundreds of miles away, and then there’s—”
“Breathe,” I say, hating that she keeps working herself up. “Stress can’t be good for you or the baby. We’ll figure it all out. Now, you tell me about your pregnancy. I’ve already missed the first…four months?” I guess.
“I’m sixteen weeks,” she confirms. “I actually went to my appointment this morning. That’s why I was running late for our meeting.”
She reaches into her purse and pulls something out. When she hands it to me, I recognize it as a sonogram picture. I stare at it for several seconds, letting it soak in. I’m going to be a dad, and Paige, the woman I fell in love with in London, is going to be a mom.
“That’s from my three-month appointment,” she says. “I’m due in November, and I get to see her…or him at my next appointment.”
“You think it’s a girl?” I ask, glancing up from the picture.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I don’t really care one way or another, but when I found out, all I could think about was how close I was with my mom when she was alive and how excited she would be. I wouldn’t mind a little girl who I could go on adventures with.”
“I hope she has your green eyes and your big heart,” I admit, handing the image back to her.
“You can keep it,” she says. “I have others.”
“Thank you. If it’s okay, I’d like to go to the next appointment with you.”
“Or I can video it for you,” she offers, confusing me until she adds, “Seems like a waste of a trip to fly all the way here to go to an appointment.”
“I’ll already be here,” I remind her, which makes her brow furrow.
“I doubt it’s going to take a month to finalize the details of the partnership with Kingston.”
She’s right—it won’t, especially since most of the major details have already been handled. Kingston doesn’t fuck around. But I’m not going anywhere. Wherever she and our baby are is where I’ll be.
“I’ll be here,” I say simply.
Then, because I don’t want her to ask questions that I don’t have the answers to—like what am I going to do about the company I run in Dallas—I change the subject.
“How has the pregnancy been so far?”
I remember Carmine’s wife, Penny, talking about cravings and hormones and all types of things when she was pregnant with my niece and nephew.
“It’s been good,” she says, perking up. “The morning sickness, as you witnessed, has been rough, but it’s slowing down. Most women stop getting nauseous by twelve weeks, but not me.” She glances down and rubs her belly lovingly. “I read that the sicker you are, the stronger the pregnancy, so I keep reminding myself of that every time I upchuck my breakfast.”
I snort a laugh. “And cravings?” I ask as the waiter sets down our salads.
“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes bright, “so many. For starters…” She stabs her fork into her salad and shows me the pickles she asked for in her salad. “Pickles. It’s so cliché, but I’m addicted. Chocolate-dipped pickles, sweet pickles, spicy pickles. The other night, I was dipping pickles into my Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.” She groans as she brings her fork to her mouth. “Pickles are just so good.”
We spend the rest of dinner keeping the topics at surface level, and the more we talk, the more I’m reminded of our time together. Paige is sweet and funny and so damn smart. When I tell her about an issue I’m having with one of our vendors, she gives me a perspective I didn’t consider, and I mentally note to email Dustin when I get back to my hotel.
“Thank you for dinner,” Paige says when I walk her to her door. “It was delicious.”
“As good as your pickle ice cream?” I joke.
“Umm, no,” she says with a laugh. “Nothing is better than Phish Food and pickles.”