Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 45
“Six forty-seven.”
“That means it's been over fifteen minutes since the last contraction. They're slowing down. If you want to help, stop barking orders at me about the ER and get me some damn water.” That came out harsher than it should, and two different Amandas suddenly take up residence inside me.
One feels guilty.
One feels terrified.
One feels angry.
Guess there are a few more Amandas in there.
“Here.” A bottled water is in my hand before I can blink. Andrew's heat radiates behind me, his body close. In my peripheral vision, I see he's got my small bag open. He must have put the bottled water in there.
“Thank you.” I unscrew the cap and drink half the bottle, hoping the hydration really does stop the contractions.
“I'm sorry.”
I halt with the water still upright, tongue blocking the flow before I choke on the spot. Andrew isn't exactly free with his apologies, so this catches me off guard.
I slowly lower the bottle. “You are?”
“I'm not trying to add to your stress. Or your pain. The opposite. I just–you're right.”
An apology and a “you're right”? Did I die and somehow not notice?
“I am?”
“I–I–I just...” Something in his voice makes me turn as his shadow changes, lowering. When I look behind me, I expect to see his face, but instead he's sitting two steps above me, one hand over his face.
And he's crying.
Crying.
He’s not sobbing; silent tears are running down. The bag is resting on the stair tread beside him, and I see he has a backpack on his shoulders. He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers, lacing him into me.
“Take all the time you need,” he says slowly, earnestly. If I could bend forward, I would kiss him, wipe his face, hug him until he squeezed the fear out of me.
But he has fear, too.
And he's mature enough to show it to me.
We make it to the car, emotion radiating off him, but we're silent. Gerald is, too, moving the car smoothly on the roads, the silence a strange comfort in the enclosed space. By the time we pull up to the medical building, the contractions are there, but they’re bearable.
Still present, but not as dire.
It's when I climb out of the back of the car that I realize I've been lulled into a false sense of security.
Because one rips through me as I have one foot still in the car.
One breath is long enough and too short by far, the pain in my belly taking on color. The rip is so intense, I can't even close my eyes. I feel like webbing covers me, all of it pulled tight under my skin.
“Oh, no,” I hear Andrew grunt from a million miles away, his hands going to my shoulder, my hips, steadying me.
“I'm. Oh. Kay,” I gasp.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, slow and low, meant to calm and soothe. “I called ahead. They know you're coming. Dr. Armaji is on duty.”
I remember her. A flash of memory hits me, no words attached, just a wide smile, slightly crooked front teeth, deep brown eyes with impossibly long lashes. Her older son plays lacrosse and Andrew gave her some tips to pass on.
And just like that, the grip lessens.
Shuffling, I notice each muscle of my inner thighs, how they stretch and tighten, my mind telling them what to do even as other muscles in me take over and do their work, heedless of my command.
“The doctor's office texted. Said to go in through the ER entrance but she's ready for you.”
We make it to an admitting desk, where we're waved onto an elevator to go to the labor and delivery wing. When we came here for childbirth classes, we entered a different way. I'm lost.
Andrew isn't.
“Do you need a wheelchair?” Andrew asks. For some reason, the question angers me.
Apparently, my glare is enough of an answer.
“Here,” he says, hands never leaving me even when he has to push the elevator button for the third floor. He's got the backpack over one shoulder now and my bag in his hand.
My hair must be a mess. We're not presentable. We're not–
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, wiping away tears I don't even realize are there. “Here.” He hands me another water from the bag.
I sip slowly, then drink faster. If hydration takes the pain away, hook me up to a five-gallon jug and a hose.
Ding!
The elevator doors open and we're suddenly in soft light, a nurse's desk in front of us.
“McCormick?” a woman in scrubs calls out.
“Yes,” Andrew answers.
She points down the hall. “Room 14. Dr. Armaji's already there.”
“It must be really bad if we're getting this kind of treatment,” I gasp as we make our way to the room.
“Or she happened to be here at the hospital and we're lucky,” he counters, making me smile.
“Amanda!” Dr. Armaji is in scrubs, hands on her hips, the friendly, crooked smile making me relax instantly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I know, right?”
“Tell me what's going on.”
For the next five minutes, she checks the heartbeats, the soothing sound of twin galloping hearts making Andrew's jaw unclench, her long list of questions automatic for her. How do obstetricians handle the responsibility? Life itself is in their hands, literally.
Every decision they make in giving advice and counsel to pregnant women has a possible bad outcome. The weight of that must be enormous.
And speaking of enormous...
Dr. Armaji sits on a stool at the base of the exam table. I'm still fully clothed, leaning back, palms flat against the paper strip covering the cool vinyl.
“I'm not going to examine you, especially because the tissues are likely delicate from the sexual intercourse you engaged in last night. But my guess is that the cervix is starting to thin, though not much. You've been with me for eleven minutes and haven't had a contraction.”
“I swear I was!”
One hand goes to my knee, reassuring. “I believe you. And it must be very frightening. But the babies are