The Ex (The Boss 4)

He went to the bottle and picked it up then brought it to me. He covered my hands with his as I held it. “You’re right. I can get through this.”

As bold and positive a statement as that was, I still had to ask, “Do you have any other bottles stashed around?”

He shook his head. “Not a one.”

I mentally sighed in relief. “Okay. What do you say we go back to the house and snuggle up in front of the fire while it’s still the right season to do so? You can read, and I can waste an hour on Tumblr.”

“All you look at on Tumblr is pornography of men in suits forcing their fingers into the mouths of hot brunettes,” he observed with an arched brow. “I would hardly call that a waste of time.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” I tilted my head to the side. “I want to make you feel better, but I don’t know exactly how. So, if you need me to do something for you or say something or stop saying things, tell me.”

His expression contorted into one of mock horror. “If you’re going to be the person giving me advice on how to communicate my feelings, I’m clearly worse off than I thought.”

I scowled at him. “Looks like someone doesn’t want to be forcing his fingers into a hot brunette’s mouth tonight.”

Growling playfully, he pulled me to his side, and we tripped over each other on our way down the row of gleaming carbon-fiber machines. There was more I could have said to him, and more that I’d eventually need to say. But, for now, this moment was enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Though our plan to spend some nights in the city, some at home, had put a teensy strain on us as we tried to adjust, by the end of May, we’d started to find the arrangement really convenient. Neil was able to meet with his tailor as often as necessary for him to be happy with his tux. I took the time usually lost in commuting to work extra hard—and get as ahead of work as I possibly could. I was thankfully nearby when Holli would have “inspirations” about the bridesmaids’ dresses. And, instead of coming home from work to an empty, barely stocked apartment three nights a week, I came home to, well, a home.

After a particularly stressful day, we were releasing some tension when Neil’s phone rang.

“Fuck it,” I gasped, still panting and rocking on top of him. “Call them back.”

But, just a few seconds later, my phone vibrated on the nightstand. Then, the house phone rang.

Neil grasped my hips to still me. “Someone…apparently needs us.”

“Yeah, and I need this,” I grumbled, but I rose, easing him from my body, and flopped onto the bed beside him. We both reached for our cell phones and said, almost in unison, “It was Michael.”

Neil’s phone rang again while he was grabbing his glasses so he could see to dial back. He fumbled his phone and barked, “Michael! Is everything all right?”

I sat up and ran a hand through my sweaty hair. Neil listened for a moment then he was up and moving, fast. I jumped up, too; something was definitely happening.

Oh god. Please let the baby be all right. I thought of my mom’s friend, Ricki, and how she’d had three premature stillbirths. Eventually, she’d been happy to adopt a toddler out of a foster home, but that didn’t make my gut feel any better. I always had a talent for remembering stuff at the worst time.

I bolted from the bed and grabbed my comfy after-work yoga pants and oversized, thin gray cowl neck sweater. I struggled into a bra and cami and hopped around on one foot as I tried to get my undies on. I was pulling the sweater over my head when Neil hung up.

He’d already put his jeans back on, and he zipped them as he spoke. “We have to go. Emma is in labor.”

“It’s too early,” I protested, though my heart resumed normal beating at the fact that the news hadn’t been worse.

“Yes, it is,” Neil said, all quiet intensity and coiled anxiety as he put on his sweater. He snatched his keys, glasses, and wallet from the fireplace mantle. “Get your coat.”

Neil drove like a maniac. We were going to get to the hospital one way or another.

Because of the late hour, the main entrance was closed. We had to enter through the emergency room. They directed us to the obstetrics department waiting room while a nurse went to fetch Michael.

“I wish we knew what was going on. Do you think they’ll let us see her?” Neil’s gaze darted to the door we’d just come through, as though expecting a full team of nurses and doctors to burst in with urgent news.

We sat in two of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, trying to ignore the television stuck on Fox News, its volume quiet enough to make our ears naturally strain, but loud enough to be unignorable. I’d gotten really good at surviving waiting room hell when Neil had been in the hospital, but waiting for Neil and waiting with Neil were two different situations entirely. His knee bounced constantly. He kept checking his watch, then his phone, then his watch again, as though it would make the time go faster. When I got him a cup of coffee, he took it from me with trembling hands.

The waiting room door opened, and Michael stepped through. I looked for any trace of anxiety on his face, but he exuded pure excitement. “Mr. Elwood, Sophie. Big day, huh?”

I went to him and hugged him. His joy was contagious, so I took it as a cue and upped my enthusiasm. “Congratulations!”

It seemed that Neil had an immunity to Michael’s infectious enthusiasm. “What are they saying? It’s too early. Are they going to try to halt her labor?”