Page 87 of Darling Venom
1) Like I ran into my dead brother’s best friend and popped a boner while consoling her.
2) Not in the fucking slightest.
But I read between the lines, knowing what Mrs. Rothschild wanted to hear.
“In peak form. Ready to deliver the twins. I’ll do my best,” I assured her, tired.
Last night, I found Terry on my doorstep with a signed copy of The Imperfections and the stipulation that I give him one last chance in exchange for it. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised me, since Terrence Marchetti’s true talent in life was exploiting his own flesh and blood.
I carried the book inside my back pocket, curved with the shape of it, because I couldn’t bring myself to treat it delicately.
And after I gave it to Charlie, I would sever any ties to her.
As if she could hear me, she turned her head in my direction. Her eyes collided with mine.
I figured she’d be startled at the very least. I hadn’t exactly given her the impression that I would step within a one-block radius of this place. But she took my presence in stride, holding my gaze with her chin tipped up.
Reagan’s mom leaned in closer. “So, tell me… the babies are girls, right?”
“I think your daughter would be upset with me if I told you before the reveal.”
“She needs you too much to be upset with you.”
“It’s true,” Reagan agreed, offering me a bottle of craft beer. “Thanks for coming, Dr. Marchetti.”
I grabbed it by the neck, downing half in one gulp. “I have no doubt I’ll be walking home with noise-canceling Sennheisers by the end of the night.”
“You entered the raffle contest?!” She burst into laughter. “That’s cheating.”
I offered a lopsided grin. “You need me too much to be upset with me.”
“True. Plus, I really enjoyed the bottle of Dom you gifted me,” she joked, winking at me. “I’m sure even the babies got drunk.” She paused. “Oh, before I forget, I have an employee that’s never been to the ob-gyn. I was hoping you’d take her on as a favor. Her name is Charlotte. You remember her, right?”
So much to unpack.
For starters, it was downright irresponsible to ignore reproductive health. Which also made it seem unlike Charlie.
But the last thing I needed—or wanted—was her as my patient.
Hannah darted toward us. Reagan spotted her first and tugged her mother away by the sleeve, calling out that she’d email Sylvia to coordinate the appointment details.
I hadn’t even agreed.
Charlie traced Hannah’s movement with hawk eyes.
My ex-fiancée approached me with the same hesitancy she’d displayed after Kellan’s death. Like I was a grenade with a missing safety clip, and she needed to be the pin.
“Hannah.” I tipped my bottle toward her in greeting.
“Tatum.” She nodded toward the clear double doors that led to a small courtyard. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
I’d planned on leaving after greeting Reagan, but I figured a five-minute conversation was the least I could do for Hannah after she’d kept me fed and sufficiently breathing in the months following Kellan’s death.
Out in the courtyard, Hannah positioned herself to block me from fleeing. Couldn’t blame her. The thought had crossed my mind.
It’d be easy to find an excuse to slip out. Mother in labor. Emergency C-section. Potential ectopic pregnancy. I’d used all three in the past when I needed space from her.
