Page 326 of By His Vow
Tatum, however...she’s had her finger on the pulse of what people want and need from Warner Group, and it fucking shows on the graph I should be looking at.
Sure, Miles and I have had a lot to do with the success, Liam too. But Tatum and her department...fuck, they have smashed it out of the goddamn park. And we’re yet to hit the most successful time in the financial year.
Liam continues, and noticing my wavering attention, Miles kicks me under the desk. But it doesn’t achieve anything other than giving me a bruise. My eyes are locked on my wife.
She’s been struggling the last few weeks. I might keep trying to tell her that she’s beautiful and glowing in a way I’ve never seen her before, but she’s exhausted, her back and hips are aching and keeping her awake at night, and she’s doing her best not to eat every piece of food that passes under her nose. I have no doubt that it’s going to be a boy despite us not finding out at the scans. Callahan men breed men—it’s just how it's always been. I don’t feel like breaking tradition with that yet, no matter how much she tries to convince me that her gut is telling her that we should be buying everything pink.
She’s aware of my attention, she always is, but that doesn’t mean she looks back at me.
My little brat.
She knows I want her eyes on me, but she won’t give them to me.
“Will you stop trying to eye-fuck Tate over the table?” Miles whisper-hisses, clearly not paying Liam any attention either.
“I’m allowed, she’s mine.”
“Don’t I fucking know it,” he scoffs, probably remembering the time he walked in on us going at it over Tatum’s desk.
We were celebrating her promotion.
It’s not our fault that Miles didn’t knock. The windows were darkened for a reason.
“Jealous, bro?” I tease.
“Of you fucking my sister? Absolutely not.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
“Not the life for me,” he mutters, earning himself a scowl from Liam.
I’m about to force myself back into this meeting when Tatum winces, her hand shooting to her belly.
My heart jumps into my throat, just like it does every time she makes a noise or does something that might signify that something is wrong.
I don’t say anything. I’ve learned my lesson over the past few months.
Our boy is probably just doing football practice on her ribs. We were told at our last midwife appointment that our little fella is in position and ready—not that we needed telling. Tatum could tell from those little feet and the pressure of his head on her bladder.
She relaxes for a minute or two, but then winces again.
“Tatum?” I whisper, unable to keep my concern to myself. There is something in her expression, something that fucking terrifies me.
I know we’re leading to a life-changing moment, and I’m so excited to meet our little guy, but also…knowing what Tatum is going to have to go through...fuck…I hate it.
I can’t stand it when she has a headache or her back is aching with her pregnancy. Her giving birth is going to kill me.
‘I’m okay,’ she mouths.
She’s also lying. I can see it in her eyes.
She blows out a slow breath, attempting to relax, but it doesn’t work, and the next time her face twists with discomfort, she lets out a little whimper.
“Tatum?” I ask, interrupting Liam and turning all eyes on her.
“I-I’m sorry. E-excuse me.”
She pushes her chair back and gets to her feet with the help of the table before shuffling toward the door, only she pauses before she gets there and grips her belly.