Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“You said you didn’t talk to him.”
“I don’t! I never respond to his texts or answer his calls. But I guess he’s been . . . keeping tabs on me. He didn’t know about you. He thought I was single—had been single—this whole time.” I lifted my chin. “He said he’d been single, too.”
“So he’s been waiting years for you and then he just gives up? Like that? I could see that fucking diamond all the way from across the street. You could probably see that fucking thing from outer space. He’s trying to buy you with all that football money, Cynthia!”
Was that a tinge of fear I heard in his voice? Jealousy? He must have heard about Zach’s contract. Seemed like Preacher was keeping tabs, too.
“He wasn’t! I think he meant it! He is sorry. He wanted to start over. I believe him. But I told him no.”
“You did,” he said, looking skeptical. He wasn’t looking at me in that adoring way he usually had. He was looking at me like I was someone he didn’t know. Didn’t like. Didn’t love. “And he just said, okay, no problem, see you later?”
“I told him about the baby!” I shouted. Preacher stared at me. I stared at him. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more surprised.
“What baby?” His voice was dangerously low. So low I could barely hear it.
“We’re having a baby. I’m pregnant,” I whispered brokenly. This was a far cry from the happy moment I’d anticipated. To think, I’d actually been excited to tell him. But his jealousy was ruining it.
Then again, he kind of had a right to be mad.
“You told him,” Preacher said as he stepped closer, “about our baby.” Another step. “Before you told me?”
“I . . .” My eyes darted around wildly, looking for an escape that wasn’t there. Preacher was twice my size and surprisingly fast for a man his size. I’d seen him move quickly when he needed to. I couldn’t outrun him. “I didn’t mean to. It just . . . happened.”
He took another step. We were just a few feet apart now. I stood up, feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge to run.
“I was about to tell you. I was coming across the street next. I just wanted to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” he asked incredulously. I realized my mistake a moment too late.
“Seeing him, I mean,” I tried to explain. But he wasn’t having it. If steam could come out of his ears, I was pretty sure it would have. He grabbed for me. I darted away and cursed, kicking as I was lifted up from behind.
“What are you doing? Put me down! You shouldn’t be lifting me,” I screeched, annoyed and worried about him at the same time. Love does that, I realized. I loved the bastard, even though he was manhandling me like a sack of grain.
Very carefully manhandling me, but still.
Preacher didn’t say a word, justify what he was doing, or put me down.
Before I knew it, I was in the air, facing upward, being carried gingerly across the street to the parsonage. A door was kicked open. Orders were barked at the guys, who were sprawled all over the tiny chairs in the kitchen eating their lunch. I was carried upstairs, thrust into the bathroom, and left alone. Preacher gave me a grim look and then shut the door. I heard a lock turn and stared in shock.
Had he . . . just . . . locked me in the bathroom?
I slid my hand into my pocket for my phone. It was gone. So was the check. He was a pickpocket on top of everything else!
“Dammit, Preacher!”
It wasn’t long, but it felt like forever. I was waiting for someone to let me out. The parsonage was quiet. Empty. I had tried pacing, but the room was too small. I tried sitting and reading the shampoo bottles, but I was too restless and worried.
What on earth was Preacher planning to do with me?
A door opened. I heard muffled voices downstairs. I cocked my head, trying to listen. Then familiar heavy footsteps on the stairs. I waited but the door didn’t open. I pressed my hand to the door, wondering what he was doing.
Then the door opened and I knew. His face was tight with controlled anger. That’s what he’d been doing.
Getting control of his emotions before he dealt with me.
I gulped nervously.
“Do you need to use the bathroom? It’s a long drive.”
I shook my head. I’d peed about fifty times, it seemed like. More out of boredom than anything else.
“Drive? Where are we going? I need to pack.”
“Don’t need clothes,” he said as he grabbed me and carried me down the stairs, but I saw that he had luggage waiting by the door. I even recognized one of my bags. Maybe he’d gone to my place to pack?