Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Mechanically, I pull a pillow out and then roll onto my side. Pain in my head and stomach stops my roll.
I wince, and that’s when I hear a voice that convinces me I must be dreaming. “Careful, freckles. You’re still in recovery.”
Grayson.
My heart stutters as I force my eyes open too fast for what feels like a hangover. I am eager to see him, but my impatience sends a blinding pain radiating through my skull.
Totally worth it.
Grayson is standing at the foot of my bed, appearing as if he hasn’t slept in a week. His facial hair is thick, but it suits him. It makes him look rugged, and when paired with a designer shirt and ass-hugging jeans, he is even more appealing than a billionaire in a three-piece suit.
Though dark circles rim his eyes, he remains the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.
While blinking against the harsh lights that add to the thumps of my temples, I scan the room. A nurse stands at my bedside, checking my pulse the old-fashioned way, like the heart monitor a second nurse is monitoring could be wrong, and a third nurse smooths a blanket over my legs.
They already point to my location, but the bland walls and the pungent antiseptic smell in the air are surefire signs I’m waking up in a hospital room.
What the?
Everything feels slow, like I’m watching it take place underwater. I see their relieved expressions as they move around me, checking my vitals and making sure I’m comfortable, but they don’t tell me the reason for my hospitalization.
After a few minutes, the nurses finish their checks. I recognize the voice of the first nurse when she announces that they’ll be right outside if I need anything. “Just hit the buzzer, and we’ll be right with you.” She was the voice in my dreams. The one who explained bringing me out of an induced coma, and how each patient’s recovery from a traumatic brain injury is different.
The team slips out, leaving my room quiet except for the steady beep of my heart monitor and the multiple bobs of Grayson’s Adam’s apple. He’s relieved—there’s no doubting that—but he also appears worried.
It’s probably my daftness turning him off. I don’t have the cute, ditzy look some women do.
As my sluggish brain searches for answers, my hand lowers to my stomach, needing the comfort of my son’s kicks to soothe the turmoil thickening my veins.
My eyes widen as fear swamps me. My stomach is flat. Not a little. A lot.
It is completely flat.
Panic colors my tone when words fire from my mouth. “My baby! What happened to my baby?”
Grayson’s hand is warm as he squeezes mine, though his tone remains apprehensive. “What do you remember?”
“Um…” I search through the slosh in my head, coming up mostly blank. There are flashes of pain, fear, and running, then nothing.
“Cameron,” I mumble when the memory hits me like a wayward dart. “You found Cameron.”
Grayson smiles. It isn’t his big, easy smile. It is small and fringed with sadness. “I did.”
“Then why are you here?” Confusion and hurt mingle with the excitement in my stomach. He has dreamed of this day for seventeen years, so why isn’t he relishing it?
Before Grayson can answer me, my earlier panic resurfaces, more violent than ever. “Did something happen to my baby? Is that why you’re here with me instead of with Cameron?”
He moves closer before gathering both my hands in his. “No, freckles. I am here because I want to be here.” Now his grin is massive, the kind that lights up his entire face, and it is full of unashamed pride. “Your son is fine. He’s been keeping everyone on their toes the past two weeks with his boisterous demands for hourly feeds.”
I’ve barely gotten over my shock that I have been out of commission for two weeks when Grayson gives me more reasons to be breathless. I can’t do anything but stare when he wheels a tiny bassinet to my bedside. Inside, swaddled in blue, is the smallest, most perfect baby I’ve ever seen.
Proof that instalove exists floods my heart, threatening to burst from my chest.
“Oh my god. Is that…?” My question stops short of asking if he is my son. He is. I know he is. I can sense it.
I still wait for Grayson to agree, though. I feel like I’m in a dream, but I have no interest in cutting it short to make sure I’m not wasting time I don’t have.
Under Grayson’s watchful eye, I track my index finger down the side of my son’s tiny face. I’m dying to hold him, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. Genuine fear of dropping him blasts through me so unforgivingly that my hands shake.
I can’t put him in a dangerous situation. He’s already so fragile and tiny. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt him—accident or not.