She pushes me away, and places her hands on top of each other on her belly. “I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you hovering.”
“Noted.”
She glares. “I mean it, Nick.”
“I know you mean it.”
The nurse comes in then. She finishes her checks—blood pressure, pulse, a gentle prod at Enya’s belly—and gives us a small, no-nonsense smile.
“It looks like dehydration and stress,” she tells us, echoing what the doctor already said. “Her blood pressure dipped, but it’s already coming back up. Pregnancy amplifies everything.”
She glances at Enya. “More fluids. Real meals. Less trying to do everything yourself.” Then she looks at me. “She doesn’t need to stay overnight as long as someone’s with her at home. Just in case.”
“You’re not staying at my place,” Enya exclaims as soon as the nurse leaves.
“Then you can stay at mine.”
“Nick!”
“Your choice.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and then her shoulders slump, only a little. “Fine! But you’re sleeping on the sofa.”
“That’s not a sofa, it’s a piece of lumpy vintage,” I protest. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if needed.
“Take it or leave.”
“Taking it.”
First the sofa and then her bed, and ultimately, her soul. I’m on my way.
When you have a mountain to climb, as I do with winning Enya back, you have to appreciate the small victories.
16
REINFORCEMENTS
ENYA
You go to the emergency department one time, and you have a very large, very handsome, very irritating ex-special agent hovering over you.
Nick has refused to leave my side since we got back. Worse, he and Cass have apparently formed an alliance, taking turns monitoring how much I eat, how much I drink, and whether I’m off my feet every thirty minutes for at least fifteen minutes.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to run a business this way.
“I got the flowers,” Nick tells me as he puts my feet up on a stool. “You take care of the paperwork while you sit on your ass.”
“Are there other places I can sit on besides my ass?” I snap.
He crouches in front of me, and I hate that my brain short-circuits a little. When we were together—whatever that was—he wore suits, played the part of an art nerd. Now it’s jeans, button-down shirts, and sometimes T-shirts that should be illegal on a man with pecs like his.
So, the other cliché about being pregnant besides having to pee all the time is that I’m horny. I mean, clichés have to come from somewhere, and they apparently come from reality.
He looks good. Really, really good.
