Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 2
I’ve got this.
I've totally got this.
A few more sentences and she'll be eating out of my hand.
Not that Cheeto-smoothie crap, though.
I splay my hand over her belly. It's surprisingly flat, though her nice, curvy hips make it easy to cuddle. “Our babies are right here. You're growing them. Your body nurtures them.”
She gives me a shaky smile.
Score! I did it. I talked her down. Declan is such an amateur. He can't compete with my ability to–
Amanda's shaky smile turns into something... green.
My wife has gone from orange to turquoise. She's the Miami Dolphins in pregnant form.
Casually, like I've done this a thousand times before (hint: it's been seven, but I've perfected my move), I reach for a small bucket in the kitchen and hand it to her so she can do the inevitable.
Reject every calorie she's trying to consume.
“I hate this,” she moans as I rub her back and try to console her. Secretly, though, I'm relieved.
At least this time, she didn't get my shoes. Can't just hop on a plane to Italy today and get a replacement pair in Milan like I used to.
“I hate it for you,” I assure her. I do. I really, really do. You know how some men claim they'd get pregnant for their wives, to spare them the pain of everything they go through to bring a new life into this world?
Yeah. I'm not one of them.
But I'll hire people to help with that pain.
And I'll be there with her, in sickness and in health, 'til Cheeto smoothies do us part.
Because we're definitely parting ways on this. If I'm eating something orange out of a blender, it'll be something my trainer, Vince, made for me, and it won't come out of a foil bag.
Though it might come out of a former Soviet-bloc country's experimental performance enhancement lab.
“Andrew?” Amanda calls for me, the sound of the bathroom faucet stopping. I hear sniffling, then she emerges, red-rimmed eyes and wan smile breaking my heart a little.
Yes, I have one.
“Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.” Compassion doesn't come easily for me. It can't, when you run a big corporation. Compassion gets tucked away in a walled-off safe, deep inside a chamber of my heart, the path to reach it one my wife has to traverse everyday. It's like working in a maximum security prison, I imagine.
You're not a prisoner, but you have to go through all the layers of security to enter the facility.
When she's upset, though, all the security measures go into a reverse lockdown, my compassion flying out to find her, protect her, keep her happy.
Sound cheesy? Too bad.
“It's okay. It's temporary. Everyone says it'll be over soon.” She frowns. “Except for Carol. She said her morning sickness lasted for thirty weeks.”
“You won't be Carol,” I say automatically, hoping like hell I'm right.
“But I have two inside me. Two! All bets are off.”
I rub her belly, moving my hand along an imaginary infinity symbol. “This is the best bet ever.”
Her smile spreads. “Yeah. It is. We made babies. I'm growing humans inside me.”
“You are.”
Every day, we have this conversation. Every single day, at some point, we stare at her navel and pat ourselves on the back for doing what Neanderthals did long before you could order a coffee on a phone or book a seat on a private space shuttle (I was number three in line when they took deposits). From the dawn of man until now, hormones and desire have made it possible to procreate.
And I hear the desire part is optional for some people.
Definitely not us.
“You know what's missing here?” I grab my phone.
“You working?” Her tone goes sour.
A few taps, and the opening chords of the first song on Yes's The Yes Album begin on the kitchen speakers. Her shoulders drop, a long, slow inhale making her ribs widen, increasingly bigger breasts rising up, my palms curling in as if imagining how I'm going to cradle them momentarily. Neurology is complex, the complicated weaving of personality, basic functioning, biology, impulse, perception–the whole mix of what makes us fully human–coming to the fore as the melody finds its way through all the interconnected channels to tap into emotion.
That heart of mine, tucked behind the iron door of a safe?
It's tapping its toes now as she lets me put my arms around her, the back of her head pressed into my chest, her weight melting into me as we close our eyes and do exactly what all expectant parents should do.
Be.
Just be.
2
Amanda
“I can't believe you gag on saltine crackers but you can eat that,” Shannon says as she points to the roe resting on top of a carefully molded chunk of rice.
We're having lunch together at a trendy new “we serve a little bit of everything” restaurant in Beacon Hill in Boston, the kind of place where you can order black bean penne tossed with arugula/sunflower seed pesto, or various kinds of sushi, or vegan ice cream with pour-over coffee.
It's like a cafeteria for hipsters.
“It's orange. Apparently, I can eat salty orange things and nothing else.”
She snorts. “You told me this when we talked on the phone, but I thought you were kidding!”
“Not kidding.”
“I can't believe we're both afflicted by the same orange food problem in early pregnancy.”
“You rubbed off on me,” I say with a glare.
“Carrots?”
“Only carrot chips, like potato chips.”
“Oranges?”
“No. Not salty.”
“Salmon?”
“So far, yes, if it's more orange than pink.”
“What else is orange and salty?”
“Sweet potato fries.”
Shannon waits, as if there's a longer list.
“That's... it?”
I shrug.
“There has to be more. What about Goldfish crackers?”
I smack my palm to my head. “I never thought of those! I'll add them to my list.”
“I just expanded your dietary repertoire by twenty-five percent. You’re welcome.”
“Shut up. You had weird foot behaviors when you were pregnant with Ellie.”
“I did. No Cheeto smoothies, though.” Her shudder is so judgmental.
“You weren't pregnant with twins.”
“Here we go again. You're