Before There Was a Baby

Chapter 17

POV Caroline

The nausea hits in the elevator.

I grip the brass railing and force my breathing steady while the floor numbers climb. The metallic taste that has become my constant companion floods my mouth, and I fumble for the breath mints I now carry everywhere.

"Are you all right?" James's hand hovers near my elbow. "You've gone pale."

"The champagne disagreed with me." The lie slides out smooth and practiced. "I should have eaten more at dinner."

He watches me with those dark eyes that miss nothing, and I wonder how long I can keep hiding this. The exhaustion that drags at my bones like anchors. The way certain smells make my stomach revolt without warning. The appointment I still have not rescheduled, though every day I delay makes the decision harder.

The time when the procedure remains simple is running out.

But I no longer know what I want.

The elevator doors open onto my floor, and James follows me down the hallway without asking permission. His presence behind me is a weight I cannot ignore—cedar and cold air and the memory of his thumb tracing circles on my palm in the dark of the opera box.

At my door, I turn to dismiss him. Instead, I find him closer than expected, one hand braced against the frame above my head.

"Thank you for tonight," I manage. "Our parents seemed genuinely pleased with each other's company."

"They barely noticed we existed." His mouth curves. "I consider that a success."

"Then we're making progress."

"We are." He doesn't move. His gaze traces my face with an intensity that makes my skin warm. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your brother. I wish I'd known him."

The sincerity in his voice undoes something I have been holding together with force of will.

"Don't." My voice cracks on the word. "Don't be kind to me right now, James. I can't—"

"Can't what?"

"You're making this very difficult."

"Making what difficult?"

Hating you. Wanting you. Pretending I can do one without the other.

I don't answer. Instead, I rise on my toes and press my mouth to his.

He freezes for one heartbeat. Then his hand leaves the doorframe and finds my waist, pulling me against him with a desperation that matches the chaos rioting through my blood. I fumble with my keys, get the door open, drag him inside.

The door clicks shut behind us, and the sound breaks something loose.

His mouth finds my throat, my jaw, the sensitive hollow behind my ear. I pull at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders while his hands work the zipper at my back. The fabric loosens, and the cool air hits my shoulders just before his palms do—warm, commanding, tracing paths that make my spine arch toward him.

We stumble backward until my shoulders meet the wall. He pins me there with his hips, his mouth never leaving my skin, teeth grazing my collarbone in a way that draws a sound from my throat I barely recognize.

My fingers find his shirt buttons, fumbling, desperate. Too slow. I pull, and something tears, and neither of us cares. His chest presses against mine, skin to skin, and the heat of him burns through every defense I have left.

His hand slides up my thigh, gathering the fabric of my gown, and the heat of his palm against my bare skin sends electricity crackling through every nerve. I want more. I want him closer. I want to forget everything except the pressure of his body against mine.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and my legs wrap around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. His mouth captures mine again—deeper now, hungrier, tasting of champagne and desperation. I rake my nails down his back and feel the shudder that runs through him, the groan that vibrates against my lips.

The bed rises to meet us. His weight settles over me, solid and grounding and exactly what I need to stop thinking about everything except the pressure of his body against mine.

"Are you certain?" His voice is rough, fractured. His dark eyes search my face.

I pull him down by the back of his neck, answering with my mouth, with my hips rising to meet his, with every inch of skin I press against him.

His hands learn me all over again—the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, places that make my breath catch and my fingers curl into the sheets.

He moves with deliberate slowness that borders on torture, his mouth following where his hands have been, and I forget my name, forget my brother, forget the hatred I am supposed to carry for this man whose touch sets every nerve ending ablaze.

The wanting builds like a fever, and each touch winds the tension tighter. My pulse pounds in my ears. My breath comes in gasps. The arousal coils low in my belly, sharp and insistent, and I'm burning, I'm desperate, I'm—

The nausea slams into me without warning.

One moment I'm drowning in sensation. The next, my stomach revolts with a violence that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with the secret growing inside me. Sweat prickles along my hairline. The room tilts dangerously.

"Stop." The word comes out strangled. "James, stop."

He pulls back immediately, confusion flickering across his features. "What's wrong?"

"You need to leave." I push against his chest, desperate to create distance before my body betrays me completely. My legs slide down from his waist, and I nearly buckle when my feet hit the floor.

"Caroline, talk to me. Did I hurt you?"

"No." Another wave crests, and I taste bile at the back of my throat. I clamp my jaw shut, willing it to pass. "I just need you to go. Now."

"You're shaking." His hand reaches for my face, and I flinch away. "Something's wrong. Let me help—"

"You can't help with this." The words come out harsher than I intend, but I'm focused entirely on not being sick in front of him. "Please, James. Just go."

He searches my face for a long moment, looking for something I cannot give him. Whatever he finds there makes his jaw tighten.

"Fine." He retrieves his jacket from the floor, his movements gone rigid and careful. "But this conversation isn't over."

I don't answer. I can't answer.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

Afterward, I sit on the cold tile floor, my back against the tub, my body hollow and trembling. The taste of bile lingers no matter how many times I rinse my mouth.

No marriage. No children. End things at the first sign of emotional complication.

His rules. I didn't invent them.

I pull my phone from the pocket of the robe I grabbed on my way to the bathroom. Dr. Stein's office. The appointment I have rescheduled twice now.

My fingers move before I can second-guess myself. March seventh. Ten AM. Confirmed.

The notification disappears into the digital void, and I let the phone clatter to the tile beside me.

I have known since that restaurant bathroom what I would do. The decision was made the moment those two lines appeared.

So why am I still enduring this—the nausea, the exhaustion, the constant metallic taste that coats my tongue? Why have I let weeks slip past, rescheduling appointments, letting this thing grow inside me when I know it has no future?

I press my palm flat against my stomach and feel nothing but the cold settling into my bones.