Titus swallows what’s in his mouth, sliding his plate onto the coffee table. “Cinnamon and sugar?”
I blink a few times, completely overwhelmed at the strength of my reaction to this moment. Who cries because a man noticed they’ve been rotating through their toast toppings, trying to keep things interesting while their stomach rebelled?
Probably a woman who’s never had a single man give two shits about her before.
I manage a shaky breath, swallowing hard at the tightness in my throat. “No. This is good. I was just surprised you noticed this was how I’ve been eating it.”
I take a bite of the buttery, fruity goodness, grateful the taste of it doesn’t make me gag. I’ve already almost cried in front of Titus within the first few minutes of finally meeting him. I can only imagine how quickly he would run away if I followed that up with barfing.
His eyes stay on me, intense in a way that makes me want to squirm as he says, “I notice everything about you.”
10
Titus
Iwatch as Mariah eats her toast. She chews slowly, waiting for a second after swallowing one mouthful down before attempting another. It’s been years since I’ve seen someone suffering from the debilitating effects of morning sickness, but it’s still easy to recognize. I was fairly certain Mariah was pregnant before this. But now?
Now I’m positive.
The signs are all there. Her temperamental stomach. The way one food will taste good until suddenly it doesn’t and she has to switch to something different. The exhaustion I can see in her eyes. The way she sips ginger tea pretty much all day long.
And then there’s the passing out.
“Is your blood pressure low?” I need to understand what led to her dropping to my kitchen floor. Need to know exactly what it is so I can figure out how to monitor it. Learn how to keep it under control.
“Maybe?” She shrugs. “I don’t remember what it was last time I had it checked. It’s been a while.”
I try to keep my reaction neutral. I might not have been a part of the world for the better part of a decade, but I still know it’s rude to ask a woman if she’s pregnant. So untilMariah feels comfortable enough to tell me, I’m going to have to tiptoe around the matter.
“Maybe you should make an appointment. See if they can figure out what caused you to pass out.” Deep in my bones I feel like I already know, and it’s grinding through my guts.
When I ran out of my room, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences of what I was doing. All that mattered was getting downstairs to make sure Mariah was okay. Even if I had considered the fallout, I would have assumed it’d be nothing more than what I normally face when someone sees me. Pity. Sadness. The questions they’re dying to ask.
But none of that happened with Mariah. At first I thought she was still delirious when she smiled at me. But as the minutes ticked by and she still hadn’t reacted to the sight of my burned face, it started to become clear she wasn’t going to pity me. That there weren’t questions waiting to be asked. Mariah acted as if she was looking at who I was before.
And for a heartbeat, I almost felt like who I was before. It was short-lived, but it was still there. A few seconds of weightless bliss.
And then it all came crashing back down. Heavier. Darker.
Closer.
Except, instead of reminding me of my failure, being close to Mariah reminds me of all I’ve lost.
And yet, I can’t make myself go back upstairs. Not when she could fall again. When she still looks like she feels so terrible.
So, instead of finishing my breakfast and going back to work, I take our empty plates to the kitchen, brew her a fresh cup of tea, and join her on the couch, turning on the television I’ve never watched.
Mariah seems as shocked as I am by the choice. Her honey eyes are wide on me as I settle in next to her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sitting here with you to make sure you don’t pass out again.” I peek her way from the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t seem like you’re in a rush to book a doctor's appointment, and I’m notsuper interested in finding out what kind of liability I’d have if you hurt yourself.”
One side of her mouth tips up. “I find it interesting that you weren’t super worried about that when I was crawling around your floors or climbing onto your counters while I cleaned.”
I flip through the on-demand options, picking the show she’s been watching. “If you wanted help cleaning, you probably should’ve passed out sooner.”
The sound of Mariah’s laugh is light and airy, but it still slams into me with a force that steals the air from my lungs. How long has it been since I’ve made a woman laugh like that? Hell, how long has it been since I’ve interacted with a woman outside of my job?
Years.
