Damon: A Level Series Novel; Book 2, page 7
“Yes. Nothing has changed. Our original agreement remains.”
“Plenty has changed,” he argues. “You and Emma are in a completely different situation from when you met back in January. Your life looks nothing like it did then. Your responsibilities are unrecognizable.”
“What has happened in my life has nothing to do with her. She entered this process for financial support…nothing more.” As the words pass my lips, even I don’t believe them anymore. Things have been changing since a few months after Connie’s death.
I’ve taken up the role of her partner in this pregnancy, a role that Connie previously filled. I find myself enjoying time with Emma, imagining what it will be like once the baby is here. Then I must remind myself that when that happens, Emma will be gone. I’ll be on my own. A single father.
Harrison watches my reaction to his questions. He leaves long pauses after he speaks and when I answer. I know this tactic, a method of trying to get me to fill the void with information. His attempt at working me like he would a client only makes me more frustrated.
“Stop treating me like a criminal you’re trying to milk for evidence,” I mutter, and a smirk passes over his lips. He knows he’s making me uncomfortable, and he’s enjoying it. “You’re an asshole.”
“And a fucking good lawyer,” he adds. “All I’m suggesting is that perhaps you being on your own to begin with as a father isn’t the best idea. And…” He pauses, collecting his thoughts before speaking. “Maybe Emma will need support too. Also, it could help with childcare. She’ll be due time off. You and her could work together to give this little girl the best start in the world.”
“No.” Without another word, I turn and walk over to where Emma is lifting papers, moving them around, and putting them back on her inexplicably messy desk. “Found what you’re looking for?” She visibly startles when I speak.
“Shit,” she snaps. “Don’t do that. I’ll have this baby here between the photocopier and the computer.”
I fail to contain my laughter; it bursts from me. She narrows her eyes in my direction then returns to looking for the file she needs.
“Do you really need the file? You’re not meant to be working,” I remind her.
“I do,” she replies, her voice sharp. “Found it! We can go now.”
“Which one is it?” I ask as she stretches for a large pile of papers. She points to a folder near the bottom. “You need a better filing system,” I tell her, reaching forward and removing the documents obstructing the one she wants.
“Or a secretary,” she says cheekily.
“You’re the intern.”
“True, but my boss says I’m a shit hot intern, so maybe I’ll get a secretary.”
I snigger, amused by her bravado. “You’re a confident spitfire, aren’t you?” I tease.
She looks at me with wide blue eyes and bites her lip. She is gorgeous, feminine and powerful. A woman completely comfortable in her own skin. A person who is fully aware of their worth and abilities. It’s endearing and attractive. Immediately, guilt fills my chest. My wife is only six months gone, and I’m finding another woman appealing. A much younger woman who isn’t someone I should be interested in.
“I’d have thought you would know that by now,” she says, cocking her head to the side, then running a hand through her long blonde hair and pushing it over her shoulder.
“It’s a good thing,” I tell her. “You need to be ballsy to work in law. Strong opinions and self-confidence are a must. You’re going to go far.” Harrison has told me countless times Emma has the makings of an amazing lawyer. He’s keen to keep her within the firm. My gut says this is part of the reason he doesn’t want me pushing her away. He suggested that she may have developed feelings for me, but I dismissed the notion. The last thing I want is to accept that could be true, as then I may have to consider how I feel myself.
“It wouldn’t have been possible without you and Connie,” she says, and the air is knocked from my lungs with my late wife’s name. The guilt which was stinging now crushes my chest. “Your kindness, never mind the connections to Harrison, has opened up so many opportunities. I can never thank you enough.”
“What you are doing for me means so much more. You are the reason I can succeed in bringing Connie’s dream to life.” Her face twists on the words Connie’s dream, but the truth is that as much as I wanted a child, I would have been all right having a life without children. But having a family was a non-negotiable point for Connie; her identity depended on her being a mother.
“Connie’s dream or your dream?” Emma asks, her tone sharp.
The question brings me up short. I’m pissed off she’s openly questioning my wish to be a father. Months ago, she threatened not to sign over the parental rights of my child. Today, that conversation hits me square in the face once more. This woman has backbone—she isn’t frightened to upset people. It’s both an attractive and terrifying quality.
The tranquil atmosphere of the day evaporates. The wall I carefully built since losing Connie in June goes back up. The bricks had started to fall recently, but now, they are being replaced and cemented in.
“Our dream. Mine and my wife’s baby,” I tell her shortly, leaving no room for debate as to whose baby this is, no matter which body is growing them. “Have you got what you need?” She nods but doesn’t speak. “Good, let’s go home.” I mentally chastise myself again; I need this woman as far from me as possible. “I mean, we’re going back to my house,” I correct myself, then walk off toward the elevator without looking back.
***
A few days later, I find Emma sitting at my kitchen table with her head in her hands. Tears stream down her face when she looks up at me. “They want me to go into the hospital and start induction,” she wails. “I had to call in with my numbers this morning.” She signals to the blood pressure machine sitting next to her. “It was high, and they don’t want to take the risk of it rising. I was about to call you. I wasn’t sure where you were, if you had left for the gym already or not.” Her words tumble from her as if each one is wrestling with the other for prominence.
“Not yet,” I say, which is fucking obvious considering I am standing here in my workout clothes. “Give me five minutes and I’ll go to get changed, then we can go to the hospital together.”
“No, I’ve called a taxi,” she tells me, waving her hand and dismissing the offer. “It can take hours if not days to start labor—you don’t need to be hanging around with me while we wait. Once things get underway, I can let you know so you can minimize your time.”
I gape at her, and she shrugs in response. We haven’t spoken properly since our disagreement at her desk. I’ve been avoiding her, and she’s been glaring at my back when she thinks I’m not looking. It’s taken every ounce of my control not to growl at her and reprimand her childish behavior. Which is no better than my own, and I don’t have the excuse of being heavily pregnant with raging hormones.
“If you think I’m going to let you go to the hospital on your own so they can induce the birth of my daughter, you’re insane,” I say fiercely. “I’m coming with you, no arguments. Cancel the taxi.”
“No.” She sits back in the chair and squares her shoulders as if ready for battle.
“Yes. Cancel it. It’s not required. I will drive you to the hospital myself.”
“No,” she repeats and glares at me. “I don’t want you to come with me.”
“It’s my baby.” I take two long steps forward which puts me at the opposite side of the table from her. My hands slam down onto the wood and I lean forward, the muscles in my forearms tensing along with my mood.
“It’s my fucking body,” she hisses, baring her teeth behind plump pink lips. She pushes herself up to stand; the movement is awkward as she spreads her stance to support her nine-month pregnant bump. “I said no. I will call you when you are needed. When you have a daughter needing a father.”
“And what about you?” I snarl. “Do you not think you’ll need support during the birth?”
“From you?” She shakes her head then folds her arms across her chest defiantly before continuing to speak. “I need nothing from you other than my new apartment rent paid as agreed. That’s the only obligation you need to worry about.”
My skin prickles as my temper rises with the pushback, I wish she would fucking accept the little help I can offer her. Let me do what I can to make this time easier on both of us. “Stop being such an independent little brat and take support when it’s offered. You’re scared, I get that. Things have been hard and not turned out as we planned.” I close my eyes and reopen them, trying to relax my face, which I know at this moment is furious with her play for power. “But Emma, you don’t need to do this by yourself.” Her eyes immediately soften, and she unfolds her arms and slumps into the seat. “You are not on your own in this,” I repeat.
“But I am,” she whispers, her voice filled with pain. “Once this is over.” She signals to her stomach. “I’m alone again.”
My resolve to send her immediately to her apartment after the birth of my child wavers—momentarily, I consider suggesting she stay longer. But before the words pass my lips, I catch them. No, stick to the plan. If Connie was still here, this is what would happen, though my wife would have been a much better support to the girl, who today looks every inch the terrified twenty-three-year-old she is.
“Please cancel the taxi,” I say again. “I’ll go and get the hospital bag.”
“It’s in the…”
I hold my hand up.
“I know where it is. I have listened to you for the million times you’ve told me the birthing plan.” She giggles and her cheeks flush soft pink. I move to turn away, then spin back to face her. “I’m sorry, Emma. My support of you has been poor. In these remaining hours or days, I’ll attempt to rectify that somewhat, but it will never be enough to make up for my shortcomings. Please forgive me.”
***
Emma
Damon makes a statement which stuns me to silence. An apology. A request for forgiveness for all the times he feels he’s let me and his unborn child down these past months. What he doesn’t see is all the good he has done, how safe he’s made me feel while I’ve lived here. Sure, there have been moments of brooding uncertainty. There were times it truly felt he didn’t want me here. In all honesty, I know he didn’t. But when the hurt and pain subsided, he resumed his calm and controlled stance, then once again became the dependable father-to-be.
***
Three weeks ago, he relented to buying a few small items for his imminent daughter. Any time previously when I suggested he stock up on supplies, he’d waved my concerns away as unnecessary. It was as if he didn’t want to accept she was coming, and he was going to be tackling the task of raising her on his own.
“What’s on your list?” he asked.
“It’s your list. I won’t be here.”
He raised his eyebrows as I sat opposite him in a coffee shop on a busy Saturday morning at the local shopping center. He looked gorgeous in casual jeans that I noticed hugged his ass as he walked slightly in front of me to the car. The black cashmere sweater he was wearing clung to his muscles, highlighting the definition over his chest and abs.
When I’d got dressed that morning, I’d put a lot of thought into my outfit. I wanted to make an effort so when we were seen together in public, we complimented each other the best we could. Having been eight months pregnant, however, made the task a challenging one. I’d hoped the bright pink, long-sleeved, bodycon dress teamed with flat knee-high boots gave off an elegant image. A woman in the final throes of pregnancy but still able to look after herself.
“Okay,” he said grumpily, bringing my attention back to him. “The list.” He emphasized the word the; no one was now taking ownership of the list of baby supplies required for his daughter’s arrival. “What do we need?”
My breath caught in my throat at his use of we and not I. It took me a moment to control my excitement, while knowing that I was reading more than was sensible into his words. Damon is a straight-talking man; I’ve learned this well since I first met him back in January. My head knew he was simply being honest, but my heart hoped perhaps he cared.
“Baby wipes, onesies, nappies, and a car seat. Everything else you can get as you need it, and no doubt your mother will want to be involved?” I asked the question that had been burning on my tongue for weeks. I hadn’t seen his mother, Marjorie, since Connie’s funeral. That day she had been welcoming, taken me under her wing as we navigated the depressing event. My assumption was she would be present throughout the rest of the year and in her new grandchild’s life. Her absence was a surprise.
Shrewd green eyes held mine, running over my face. His tongue darted out between lips. “My mother,” he said, “is a busy woman. I had hoped she would be willing to help, but unfortunately her work takes her all over the world. She hasn’t been in the UK since the funeral.” My heart sank at the unfortunate news; they had appeared close. “She’s an amazing woman. Self-made, resilient and loving, but also a completely work-obsessed moneymaker.”
“What does she do?” I asked. It struck me as odd that it never came up in conversation with her. But then, the day of the funeral had been a blur, and I’d only wanted to survive it. With her help, I had.
“She’s a sex therapist,” he said, and I blinked at him. Of all the jobs that ran through my head, that was never one of them.
“A sex therapist?” I repeated back. My confusion must have been clear on my face as I tried to join the dots but failed miserably.
“Yes, to the stars…” he continued then trailed off with a chuckle. “Your face is a picture. My mother is one of the most highly respected therapists in the world. People pay her obscene amounts of money to help them satisfy both themselves and their partners.”
“Well,” I stammered, unsure how to respond, “of all the occupations I expected your mother to have…that wasn’t one of them.”
“And you can understand perhaps why I don’t shout it from the rooftops?” I nodded, he smiled—a genuine smile filled with laughter and happiness. “But I am extremely proud of her. She lives a life most women would envy and does it on her own. If I truly need her, she’ll come, but until then I need to figure this out on my own.”
“You’re not on your own,” I told him. “I’ll do what I can to help, starting with getting this little girl.” I placed my hands on my stomach. “A few items for her wardrobe.
The day had continued well. We chatted and Damon seemed openly excited about the new arrival. Every so often our hands touched as we both reached for the same item on the shelf. On each connection, my body buzzed, the reality of having such a masculine man near me for an extended length of time. As he guided me back to the car, carrying our shopping bags in one hand and holding my hand gently in the other, my skin had tingled beneath his touch. His walls were down for the first time; he spoke to me without the guarded tone he normally used. His actions weren’t romantic, but they were caring, and I considered that progress.
But then, upon arriving back at the house he had shared with his late wife, the old Damon reappeared, and a huge distance opened up between us. Though the day had been enjoyable, it was also a glimpse into a life I could never hope to have. No matter how my feelings were developing, Damon McKinney was very much still Connie’s husband.
***
His footsteps cause me to lift my eyes, which were focused on my fingers as I relived that day. It had been possibly the best day I’ve had since we lost Connie. He’s changed out of his sportswear into his standard jeans-and-cashmere sweater combo. In his hand is the pink duffel bag I packed, emptied, and repacked countless times in preparation for this trip.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice soft.
“No, but it’s happening whether I am or not.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “It will be all right, I’m there for you every step of the way,” he says, his voice calm and oozing confidence.
I want to reply petulantly until you’re not. You’ll be there 'til I give you this child, and then you’ll be gone, like everyone I’ve ever loved.
My brain snaps as the term love flits through it. Now I am being ridiculous. I’m nine months pregnant with raging hormones and living with a hot, older man. The idea that I love Damon is insane. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. I’ll be able to focus on my career instead of pretending to want to play happy families.
“Let’s go and get this over with,” I mutter, then stand. He walks around the table, holding out his hand. I take it. My body responds with a flurry of endorphins, and for an instant, I am deliriously happy.
“Together,” he says simply, then leads me out of the kitchen and toward the hospital to have our baby—which will never be mine.
Chapter nine
The London Maternity Centre
Damon
We drive another lap around the parking area, looking for a space. Why do hospitals never have enough parking? The architects that design these fucking places need to go back to university and relearn what’s important when designing a public service facility. As we turn down yet another insanely narrow row, I notice a large SUV drive out. My foot presses down on the accelerator, and my banged-up car speeds up somewhat. The engine revs loudly with the increase in speed.
Emma is sitting beside me, her fingers wrapped around the door handle. I’ve noticed she’s a nervous passenger. Whenever she’s been in my car, if we drive too close to the car in front or take a corner fast, a breath catches in her throat. Speed and close proximity to other vehicles makes her uncomfortable. She always holds the handle—her hands are never relaxed on her lap. I wonder if there’s a reason behind the tension, but I’ve never been brave enough to ask. Showing too much interest in her is something I want to avoid, though there is so much I want to know.
