Page 86 of Darling Venom
The least I could do was show up at a gender reveal with a real gift and a smile that screamed THAT SIX GRAND YOUR INSURANCE PAYS PER VISIT IS WORTH IT.
At the gift table, I tossed an envelope into a basket. It contained a recommendation letter to a high-ranking preschool in the city, where a former patient held a seat on the admissions board.
Probably a byproduct of my conscience working overtime.
It didn’t help that I felt like a piece of shit for, well, being a piece of shit. Which was why I ended up here, for the record, despite what I’d told Miss Charlotte Richards.
Snatching a pen and flashcard from a pile, I scrawled my guess of the babies’ sexes and slipped it into the raffle box. Two boys, by the way. I saw the appendages myself on the last ultrasound.
And yes, this was unprofessional. But I knew Reagan would get a kick out of it. Plus, the prize included noise-canceling headphones, which would come in handy whenever Terry entered my general vicinity.
A herd of women stared at me from the fireplace.
Women usually stared at me for one of two reasons:
they wanted me in them (sexually). Or
they wanted me in them (clinically).
Either way, I wasn’t interested.
I strode to Reagan, intent on spitting out a greeting and dipping as soon as possible. Then I caught sight of Charlotte Richards, followed by my ex-fiancée. They had their heads sloped forward in conversation.
Charlie sported a blush the shade of baked lobster and a hemline that left ninety percent of her legs on display.
You did not come here to eye-fuck your brother’s best friend.
You did not come here for Charlotte Richards at all.
I had no intention of continuing on the downward spiral where she was concerned. Consider my fixation under control.
So, I had no desire to converse with her. Or worse—pull her tiny dress up and sink inside her pussy with those knee-high socks still on.
None whatsoever.
Someone clutched my shoulder. From the looks of it, Reagan’s mother. “Dr. Marchetti, right?”
I stretched out my hand for a shake, wondering who invented manners and regretting that I had to abide by them to keep up my charming Doctor Miracle persona.
Apparently, patients wanted Jekyll, not Hyde.
Shocker.
“You can call me Tatum. I take it you’re Mrs. Rothschild?”
“Jennifer.” She placed a palm on either side of my hand in lieu of a shake. “Dr. Marchetti, what you’ve done for my daughter… I can’t thank you enough for it.”
Behind her, Charlie studied Hannah, who looked exactly the same as she had the day she’d moved out four years ago.
Hannah’s lips formed words at a measured pace. She had a tendency to think through her thoughts before she verbalized them, with the exception of all things Kellan. Which ended up being the wrecking ball to our relationship.
That, and the pesky little fact that I simply didn’t like her.
As a human, sure.
As a fiancée? Hard pass.
“I’ve never seen her this happy.” Mrs. Rothschild’s hands still grasped mine. “We’re so excited for the babies to come. I’ve cleared out a room in my house for when they visit their grandma. How have you been lately? Well-rested?”
