Finally honouring his memory.
And if I happen to hunt down one dark-eyed, freckled Irish girl along the way?
That would just be fate finally paying its dues.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ZARA
May
The days have somehow slipped into weeks, and before I know it, it’s the end of May. I’m eighteen weeks pregnant. Almost halfway there.
And according to Nico, I’ve finally hit my “glowing goddess era.”
He and I are eating lunch at the Beckett Deluxe Design studio, a purpose-built, three-storey building in Ballsbridge. Killian insisted on keycard entry. CCTV. All clients have to provide identification on arrival, whether they’re here to see me or any member of my team. No one gets in or out unless it’s documented.
Fine by me. It’s better than being cooped up in the Beckett building on Grafton Street.
My family smothered me before I was pregnant.
Now, their fussing is insufferable.
My mother now callsevery single morning. She interrogates me about everything from my sleep patterns to my bowel movements. It’s too fucking much.
Scarlett and Ivy call me several times a week to check on me. Both of them dropped off enormous bags of theirfavourite maternity pieces—all Seraphine of course—if it’s good enough for Meghan Markle, it’s good enough for the Becketts. Rebekka and Rian, who live in the same penthouse building as me, pop their heads around my door twice a week, bringing me flowers and grapes like I’m sick or something. Sean and Layla arrived last week with enough boxes of baby stuff to fill an entire nursery. Avery has ordered an extra flower girl dress in case it’s a girl—I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’m convinced otherwise.
Even Killian’s been texting to see how I’m feeling. I’m still not convinced he’s not looking for California, but I am convinced that with the Jack O’Connor threat still not tied up, he’s not about to hop on a plane to go and hunt him down.
I love them all.
I really do.
But I’m suffocating.
‘If your hair gets any thicker, Wella will be banging your door down, begging you to star in a shampoo ad,’ Nico says, spearing a piece of his Cajun chicken salad across the table from me. We usually go out for lunch, but we’re meeting with Cole Hartmann this afternoon, so instead we decided to go over his initial requests for the casino before we assess the space and lighting when we get there.
‘It’s the hormones. Thank fuck there’s some good ones thrown into the mix because I’m only ever one Red Cross advert away from bawling my eyes out.’ I shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Nico is right—it’s never been this glossy or lustrous in my life.
And don’t get me started on my skin.
And my boobs.
And finally, I have a tiny bump. It’s small, round, utterly beautiful—and utterly impossible to hide anymore. I’m embracing it, seeing as I don’t have any plans to get pregnantagain. I’ve switched the oversized shirts for fitted bodysuits that hug my figure, and low hanging tailored trousers that sit beneath my bump beautifully.
My body feels like a cathedral under construction—bigger, stronger, built for something sacred—and terrifying. It seems to know what it’s doing, even if I don’t have a clue.
Dr Kensington has been throwing words like ‘birth plan’ around like it’s something I can control. I’ve heard enough horror stories from my sisters-in-law to know that all plans whoosh out the window when the waters break.
I don’t give a shit about ‘zen music’ or playlists or birthing pools.
Give me all the drugs.
That’s my birthing plan.
‘Well, whatever you do, don’t cry in front of Hartmann later. He’s supposed to be ruthless, so if he doesn’t like your suggestions, don’t take it personally. Give him whatever he wants. Not only has he agreed to double your regular design fee, but this project has the prestige to propel Beckett Deluxe Designs to a global level.’
I roll my eyes at my friend. ‘Like I need reminding.’ I shove the last of my peanut butter bagel into my mouth—I can’t get enough of the stuff right now.
