Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 43
Is this what Andrew looks like when he's panicking?
“Why not? We need to call the doctor.”
“Let me think.” Thrusting the glass back at him buys me time. “Fill this again. I need more.”
“I'm calling 911.” His voice fills me with terror, because when he sounds like that, he's in action mode and there's no stopping him.
I need time.
“NO!”
“Amanda.”
“Please. Water first, hospital next.” The words are out of my mouth. I said it. This is inevitable.
But my fear needs a few seconds to get used to the idea.
His finger is an inch away from his phone's screen, but he stops, gets me more water, brings it back, and starts getting dressed. Then he picks up the phone again.
“I said I need more time.”
“I'm telling Gina to clear my schedule.”
My terror turns up a notch. This must be bad if he's doing that.
“An entire day?” I squeak.
“Are you bleeding?” he asks calmly, and that's what breaks me. His calm. His concern.
And clearing his schedule.
My hand moves reluctantly between my legs, praying for dryness. Peeling back the covers is an act of will. What's there?
What isn't?
As I twist to look, one of the babies moves in a long, rolling line, and a bump of a tiny joint pokes out my skin. It’s an inch of heaven.
“He moved! One of the babies moved.”
And then the tightening happens again.
A rush, all the air in my body moving out of me, paralyzes my lungs as someone stretches me impossibly. A dull ache turns up in intensity as Andrew holds my shoulders. Strangely, I notice that his shirt is buttoned up wrong, one buttonhole off.
“I'm calling,” he says, but I reach forward and clutch his shirt, pulling him closer. He whispers, “Breathe. Use what we learned in class. Just breathe through it. Imagine oxygen pouring into your cells, opening everything.”
I take a breath, pushing past the wall that makes air stay on the other side.
“Breathe,” he says, making breathy sounds like he's trying to do it for me. His hand is still gripping the phone, but he's not calling.
I do. It slows down, then fades suddenly, like someone stopped wringing a washcloth. The water suddenly tastes like ambrosia and I gulp greedily.
“Call the OB practice,” I whisper, grateful for the break. My legs begin to shake. “Let's start there.”
“But–”
“Call the OB,” I respond in a low, commanding voice neither of us recognizes. I sound like him when he's being brutally firm.
It works. He calls. Someone answers on the second ring.
“This is Andrew McCormick. I'm calling for my wife, Amanda. She’s thirty weeks, twins. She's experiencing contractions. Yes.” He hands the phone to me.
I take it.
“Hi, Amanda. This is Morgan. I'm calling Dr. Parnathi right now, but as I ping her, can you give me more specifics? Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“I've had two.” I put the phone on speaker.
“How far apart were they?”
Helpless, I look to Andrew, who frowns at the bedside clock as if it's derelict in doing its job.
“I'm not sure. Maybe five minutes?”
“Okay. I'll ask you a few more questions, and let's see if we can stay on the line for five minutes. If there's another one, that'll tell us a lot.”
“Okay.”
“Has this happened before?”
“No.”
“What were you doing when it happened?”
“Sleeping.” Andrew takes my empty water glass and walks to the bathroom, refilling it.
“The contraction woke you up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do anything different yesterday? Something extra strenuous?”
“Nothing more than normal.”
“Did you have intercourse before bed?”
Andrew freezes on his way back to me, hand clutching the now-full glass. He looks at his crotch.
“Er, um... yes.”
“Any suspicious discharge?”
“No.”
“Any nausea? Fever? Headache? Heart racing?” She goes through a longer list and I say no between sips of water.
“Then it's the contractions only?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Okay. Amanda?”
The phone suddenly shows Dr. Parnathi calling on another line.
“Oh! The doctor's on the other line.”
“I'm going to hang up now and the doctor will take over from here. I hope everything goes well.”
I accept the doctor's call.
“Amanda,” her soothing voice says, “I understand you're having contractions. Can you tell me more about it?”
As I give her all the same information I gave Morgan, I drink to the point of needing to pee, but hold it. I climb off the bed and stand, the pressure on my bladder shifting.
“Do you feel the babies?” she asks.
As if in cue, Lefty moves, then Righty.
“Yes. Pretty sure they both just moved.”
“Good. That's very good. Have you had another contraction yet?”
“No.” I look at the clock. It's been at least five minutes.
And it's 5:59 a.m.
Another series of questions. I ask Andrew to get me a glass of orange juice, per the doctor's suggestion. I drink it.
“At thirty weeks, Amanda, I'm still concerned about the babies' lung development. I hate to send you to an emergency room when our office opens in just ninety minutes, so here is what I suggest: hydrate. Elevate your legs. Pack a bag–”
“A bag! You think I'll be hospitalized?”
“In case. You and your husband should get ready and be at the office at 7:30. We'll make you a standby appointment. We're adjacent to the hospital, so if we need to admit you, we will. But given we're now at eight minutes since the last contraction, I'm suspecting dehydration and sexual activity might be the culprit.”
Andrew's eyes change at that last part.
“But–”
“Do you need to go straight to the ER, Amanda? I can make sure–”
I walk a bit, doing an inventory of my body. Babies moving? Yes. Back aching more than usual? No. Need to pee?
Badly.
Contractions? No.
“I think I'm okay. It's been nine minutes and nothing new. I'll keep drinking water. We'll be there at 7:30.”
“Good. In the meantime, if anything changes...” She rattles off a list of issues to watch out for, and then I hang up the phone.
My eyes meet Andrew's.
“We're going now.”
“No. Please, Andrew.”
“And we're never having sex again.”
That makes me laugh. Which makes my abdominal muscles (what's left of them) tighten.
Which makes the air whoosh out of me.
Which terrifies my husband.
“We're going,” he demands. “I'll