“Oh.” She bites her lip. Fuck me. “Okay, but quick question: Do you want chicken and salad for dinner or steak and salad?”
I rake my fingers through my hair, wishing like fuck she’d just do as I say sometimes. “Either.”
“No, I need you to choose. I—”
“Fucking hell, Birdie, stop talking, turn that ass of yours around, and leave or else I’m going to have to get in the shower and jerk off.”
That gets her attention. “Okay, okay, I’m going, but don’t you complain when I serve you chicken instead of steak.” With that, she finally exits the bathroom, leaving me turned on and frustrated.
I stand under the shower for longer than normal, trying to get my thoughts in order. Between IVF, the stuff with Zenith, and the first shipment of coke due to arrive from Torres, I’ve got a lot going on. On top of that, King’s busting my balls over the fact Torres hasn’t given me a confirmed delivery date yet, causing tension between us that we’ve never experienced. I’ve had a headache for days, my body is tight as fuck, and I need my woman in ways I can’t fucking have her.
Placing both palms to the shower tiles, I drop my head, close my eyes, and exhale a long breath. I spend another few minutes here before flicking the shower off. When I join Birdie in the kitchen five minutes later, I find her deeply engrossed in reading something on her phone.
Snaking my arm around her waist from behind, I drop a kiss to her shoulder. “What are you reading?”
Reaching a hand up, she grips my neck and holds me in place while she turns her head to kiss me. Then facing me, she holds her phone up so I can see. “I just found this new study on IVF success rates.”
Fuck.
Birdie spends far too long googling shit as far as I’m concerned. She’s researched the hell out of how to maximise IVF, and we’re doing all the things she’s found as suggestions. We’re also following all our doctor’s recommendations. Beyond that, I don’t see the point in continuing to research this stuff. It only causes her unnecessary anxiety, and she already has enough of that.
Taking the phone from her, I say, “Angel, we already know everything we need to know. Don’t stress yourself out by reading more.”
“I’m not stressing myself out. I’m keeping up to date with current data.”
“No, you’re searching madly for hope when we don’t need that. We just need to follow the path we’re on. We’re already doing everything we can.”
“Don’t be an asshole tonight, Winter. I’m on a high and I don’t wanna ruin that.”
“I’m not being an asshole. I’m being practical. I don’t see the need to keep looking for more information all the time. It only stirs you up and makes you anxious over this shit.”
Annoyance flares in her eyes. “This shit?”
“Fuck,” I mutter, my patience fraying. “You know what I mean.”
“Well, I think you mean this baby-making journey we’re on. You know, to bring our child into this world. But I wouldn’t call it ‘this shit.’”
“Jesus Christ, do we need to argue over this? You’re blowing what I said out of proportion.”
“I don’t like what you said. So what if I’m looking for hope? I feel like I need it, and me spending time searching for information doesn’t hurt you.”
“Except it does”—my voice grows louder even though I’m trying like fuck to keep it even—“because I’m the one who cops your moods and deals with your anxiety.”
My phone rings, but I ignore it.
Birdie’s eyes widen, and she stares at me silently for a good few moments before finally stalking out of the kitchen.
My phone rings again; I ignore it again.
Fuck.
“Birdie!” I go after her.
She doesn’t stop, continuing to cut a path to our bedroom. “Don’t come after me, Winter. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Too fucking bad, because we’re finishing this discussion.”
Coming to a halt, she spins and faces me, her face wild.