Three days and too many hours, and the need to pull her into my arms great.
How is it possible that, just a few short weeks ago, my life moved in such familiar rhythms, but since I found her stuck in Rufus’s bloody dog door, I can’t seem to think of anything else?
I can barely concentrate. And it doesn’t help that she’s been avoiding me. She says she’s been busy at work and too tired to do anything else, but these reasons alone wouldn’t stop her from looking at me right now.
Maybe she’s having second thoughts—second thoughts of being tied to me for life.
‘And you must be Miranda.’ Will’s voice pulls me from my morose thoughts.’
‘Wowsa. I mean, yes. Miranda.’ If Will finds Miranda’s greeting a little strange, he’s professional enough not to show it. The bastard still hasn’t lost his touch, I see.
He didn’t earn the monikerDr Pussyfor nothing. I suppose it’sLord Pussythese days.
It’s a little ridiculous, but I find myself reaching for her hand as we take our seats. Unlike any other doctor I know, he perches his irreverent arse on our side of his desk as he feeds his finger into the neck of his shirt, loosening his tie a touch.
‘Thanks for taking the time to see us so late.’
‘Not at all. It’s the least I could do. Besides, I owe you one. Sadie adored the Alyssa Monkton piece so much.’
A couple of months ago, Will called me in the gallery to ask if I could help him source something for his wife’s birthday. Eventually, he selected a charcoal drawing, something quite sensual, almost erotic in nature. I’m pleased that she appreciated it because I almost kept it for myself.
‘That’s good to hear. So.’ I clear my throat. How does one tactfully announce he’s responsible for making another pregnant?
‘Miranda, how are you feeling, hen?’ As he turns to her, his piercing gaze is intent. Perhaps his lapse into Scots is part of his bedside manner?
‘Honestly? And I know you’re not supposed to self-diagnose with the help of Dr Google, but I’m pretty sure I feel pregnant.’
His deep burst of laughter fills the room. ‘So symptoms?’ He folds an arm across his chest, his fist curled under his chin like a flesh incarnation of Rodin’sThe Thinker.
‘Vomiting. Copious amounts of vomiting.’
‘Mornings?’
‘Mostly.’ She lifts her shoulder in a light shrug. ‘Sometimes more.’
‘That’s normal, and it usually settles down by the second trimester.’
‘Can you knock me out until then?’
‘What? And let you miss out on all the fun?’
‘There speaks a man who has never been pregnant.’
‘True enough. We get all of the fun and none of the inconvenience, according to my wife.’
‘Do you have children?’ she asks, cocking her head to one side.
‘I have a daughter and another babe on the way.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be having more than one.’
‘At least, not at once, let’s hope.’ My attempt at joining the conversation earns me frowns from both parties.
‘Don’t even joke about that,’ she says, turning her attention from me almost immediately. ‘And afterwards, I think I’m having my lady bits sewn up because I never want to feel like this again.’
‘I can prescribe you something to ease it if it becomes too much. But first things first; we’ll let the dog see the rabbit.’
I’m relieved when he leans behind him, grabbing Miranda’s file because I thought for a minute that he was the dog in that aphorism, and the rabbit was something he has no business looking at. Except he does, doesn’t he? I suppose you can’t deliver a child without being at the business end of things.
