Page 53 of Misadventures with a Professor
Chapter Seventeen
Zandy
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
I blink at the screen next to me. Everything just looks like a swirl of static, except for the tiny spot at the middle. “Is that sound the heartbeat?” I whisper.
The ultrasound tech smiles at me. “It is. Baby’s doing just fine.”
I let out a long breath of relief. In the handful of days since Oliver’s phone call, I’ve had light, persistent cramping—nothing too scary, but my new nurse-midwife wanted to make sure everything was progressing well all the same.
I stare at the little bean on the ultrasound monitor, as if it will make the storming thoughts inside my head clearer. As if it will loosen the painful knot in my chest.
It doesn’t, but I still feel a spike of mind-boggling awe—as well as a spike of regret. Oliver should be here right now. Oliver should be here to see his child. Even if there’s no future for us, he deserves that much at least.
“I’m going to run these images over to your midwife and make sure she doesn’t want anything else,” the ultrasound tech says, snapping her gloves off and taking some printouts away from the machine. “Stay here.”
As if I’m going anywhere naked below the waist and still slicked up with the bluish lube they used for the ultrasound wand. I consider reaching for my phone as the door closes behind the tech, but I decide against it. I’ll only be crushed by how blank it is; Oliver hasn’t tried to call or contact me at all since we last spoke on the phone.
I close my eyes against the sudden burn, feeling stupid. This is what I wanted, right? Dignity, distance, all of the stuff that sounds so good in theory and Cosmo articles.
In real life, however, dignity sucks.
My eyes are still closed as the tech comes back in the room, and I take a deep breath, preparing to act the part of chipper young mom again. It’s been a little embarrassing, being here alone, knowing the front desk girls and the clucking, brusque nurses are all forming their own opinions about me, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, right?
Right.
But before I can open my eyes to greet the tech again, I feel a blunt finger tracing the narrow leather band of my wristwatch. “Always this watch,” a wry British voice says. “Even now.”
I open my eyes.
He’ll never stop being so fucking handsome, will he? The unkempt shadow of a beard on that square jaw matches his tousled hair perfectly, and even the sleepless smudges under his eyes only serve to set off the unfairly long eyelashes and the hypnotically colored eyes. That sensual mouth is currently twisted in a smile so aristocratically and perfectly Oliver Markham Graeme that I could cry.
“You’re here,” I say pointlessly.
He settles a hand over my lower stomach, but his eyes never leave my face. “I’m here,” he affirms.
“But…” I don’t have the rest of the words to finish my objection, although it’s not really an objection. Even with everything between us, seeing him is like swallowing down pure excitement. A hot flush of happiness starts to creep up my cheeks.
He notices, his smile becoming less dry and more tender. He brushes along my blush-stained cheeks with the back of a finger. “But nothing, darling. You were right. About everything.”
“Everything?” I ask, suddenly finding myself uncertain in the trance of his beautiful eyes.
“I wish you hadn’t left,” he admits. “I wish you would have told me about the baby the moment you found out…but I understand why you didn’t. It took you calling me absurd before the truth became clear to me.”
“I didn’t call you absurd,” I clarify quickly. “Just your weird self-loathing.”
He laughs, the act transforming his expression into that boyish, happy face I love so much. “Okay, fine then. It took you calling my self-loathing absurd for me to understand.” He sobers a little, his hand splaying so nice and warm on my belly. “And I think I do understand now. I never wanted you to feel like a duty, Zandy. I want you because I want you. And if you’ll have me the way I am”—his eyes meet mine—“then I’m all yours.”
I search his expression. “So you aren’t going to insist on marriage?”
“I want to marry you, but only if you’re willing.” The look on his face is fierce and loving. “And I’ll be there as long as it takes to make you willing.”
“And you’re not going to quit your writing and go take a teaching job you hate?”
“No.”
“And you’ll still be a spanky professor with me?”
