Page 19 of Damon
I snigger, amused by her bravado. “You’re a confident spitfire, aren’t you?” I tease.
She looks at me with wide blue eyes and bites her lip. She is gorgeous, feminine and powerful. A woman completely comfortable in her own skin. A person who is fully aware of their worth and abilities. It’s endearing and attractive. Immediately, guilt fills my chest. My wife is only six months gone, and I’m finding another woman appealing. A much younger woman who isn’t someone I should be interested in.
“I’d have thought you would know that by now,” she says, cocking her head to the side, then running a hand through her long blonde hair and pushing it over her shoulder.
“It’s a good thing,” I tell her. “You need to be ballsy to work in law. Strong opinions and self-confidence are a must. You’re going to go far.” Harrison has told me countless times Emma has the makings of an amazing lawyer. He’s keen to keep her within the firm. My gut says this is part of the reason he doesn’t want me pushing her away. He suggested that she may have developed feelings for me, but I dismissed the notion. The last thing I want is to accept that could be true, as then I may have to consider how I feel myself.
“It wouldn’t have been possible without you and Connie,” she says, and the air is knocked from my lungs with my late wife’s name. The guilt which was stinging now crushes my chest. “Your kindness, never mind the connections to Harrison, has opened up so many opportunities. I can never thank you enough.”
“What you are doing for me means so much more. You are the reason I can succeed in bringing Connie’s dream to life.” Her face twists on the words Connie’s dream, but the truth is that as much as I wanted a child, I would have been all right having a life without children. But having a family was a non-negotiable point for Connie; her identity depended on her being a mother.
“Connie’s dream or your dream?” Emma asks, her tone sharp.
The question brings me up short. I’m pissed off she’s openly questioning my wish to be a father. Months ago, she threatened not to sign over the parental rights of my child. Today, that conversation hits me square in the face once more. This woman has backbone—she isn’t frightened to upset people. It’s both an attractive and terrifying quality.
The tranquil atmosphere of the day evaporates. The wall I carefully built since losing Connie in June goes back up. The bricks had started to fall recently, but now, they are being replaced and cemented in.
“Our dream. Mine and my wife’s baby,” I tell her shortly, leaving no room for debate as to whose baby this is, no matter which body is growing them. “Have you got what you need?” She nods but doesn’t speak. “Good, let’s go home.” I mentally chastise myself again; I need this woman as far from me as possible. “I mean, we’re going back to my house,” I correct myself, then walk off toward the elevator without looking back.
***
A few days later, I find Emma sitting at my kitchen table with her head in her hands. Tears stream down her face when she looks up at me. “They want me to go into the hospital and start induction,” she wails. “I had to call in with my numbers this morning.” She signals to the blood pressure machine sitting next to her. “It was high, and they don’t want to take the risk of it rising. I was about to call you. I wasn’t sure where you were, if you had left for the gym already or not.” Her words tumble from her as if each one is wrestling with the other for prominence.
“Not yet,” I say, which is fucking obvious considering I am standing here in my workout clothes. “Give me five minutes and I’ll go to get changed, then we can go to the hospital together.”
“No, I’ve called a taxi,” she tells me, waving her hand and dismissing the offer. “It can take hours if not days to start labor—you don’t need to be hanging around with me while we wait. Once things get underway, I can let you know so you can minimize your time.”
I gape at her, and she shrugs in response. We haven’t spoken properly since our disagreement at her desk. I’ve been avoiding her, and she’s been glaring at my back when she thinks I’m not looking. It’s taken every ounce of my control not to growl at her and reprimand her childish behavior. Which is no better than my own, and I don’t have the excuse of being heavily pregnant with raging hormones.
“If you think I’m going to let you go to the hospital on your own so they can induce the birth of my daughter, you’re insane,” I say fiercely. “I’m coming with you, no arguments. Cancel the taxi.”
“No.” She sits back in the chair and squares her shoulders as if ready for battle.
“Yes. Cancel it. It’s not required. I will drive you to the hospital myself.”
“No,” she repeats and glares at me. “I don’t want you to come with me.”
“It’s my baby.” I take two long steps forward which puts me at the opposite side of the table from her. My hands slam down onto the wood and I lean forward, the muscles in my forearms tensing along with my mood.
“It’s my fucking body,” she hisses, baring her teeth behind plump pink lips. She pushes herself up to stand; the movement is awkward as she spreads her stance to support her nine-month pregnant bump. “I said no. I will call you when you are needed. When you have a daughter needing a father.”
“And what about you?” I snarl. “Do you not think you’ll need support during the birth?”
“From you?” She shakes her head then folds her arms across her chest defiantly before continuing to speak. “I need nothing from you other than my new apartment rent paid as agreed. That’s the only obligation you need to worry about.”
My skin prickles as my temper rises with the pushback, I wish she would fucking accept the little help I can offer her. Let me do what I can to make this time easier on both of us. “Stop being such an independent little brat and take support when it’s offered. You’re scared, I get that. Things have been hard and not turned out as we planned.” I close my eyes and reopen them, trying to relax my face, which I know at this moment is furious with her play for power. “But Emma, you don’t need to do this by yourself.” Her eyes immediately soften, and she unfolds her arms and slumps into the seat. “You are not on your own in this,” I repeat.
“But I am,” she whispers, her voice filled with pain. “Once this is over.” She signals to her stomach. “I’m alone again.”
My resolve to send her immediately to her apartment after the birth of my child wavers—momentarily, I consider suggesting she stay longer. But before the words pass my lips, I catch them. No, stick to the plan. If Connie was still here, this is what would happen, though my wife would have been a much better support to the girl, who today looks every inch the terrified twenty-three-year-old she is.
“Please cancel the taxi,” I say again. “I’ll go and get the hospital bag.”
“It’s in the…”
I hold my hand up.
“I know where it is. I have listened to you for the million times you’ve told me the birthing plan.” She giggles and her cheeks flush soft pink. I move to turn away, then spin back to face her. “I’m sorry, Emma. My support of you has been poor. In these remaining hours or days, I’ll attempt to rectify that somewhat, but it will never be enough to make up for my shortcomings. Please forgive me.”