Free Capital Risk by Lana Grayson Page B

don’t, but I’m sure you’ll understand eventually. Tell Sarah that her Daddy misses her.” His threat riddled with insincere warmth. “And I’ll be visiting her again very, very soon.”

Reed tapped a page in the baby book. “Hey, Sarah. Did you know—right now—your uterus is the size of a grapefruit?”
    I burst into tears.
    “Nice job.” Max ate his spaghetti but passed me the box of tissues. I grabbed one, but the last tissue pulled out too. I couldn’t reach it before it floated to the floor.
    Wasting that tissue was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
    The tears kept coming.
    “ Whoa .” Reed stuck a knife in his book to mark his place. “Chapter four warned about the mood swings. Probably should have been in chapter one.”
    He picked up the tissue and knelt beside my chair. The kitchen table was stocked with every variety of fruit, vegetable, ice cream, and pasta dish, but between the incessant crying and nausea, nothing set right with me except that box of tissues, and now they were gone , and I was pretty sure I went insane sometime in the last week.
    “Sorry, Sarah.” Reed rubbed my arm. “Your uterus is lovely.”
    He brushed lower, massaging my elbow before drifting to take my palm. He didn’t reach it. His hand circled my wrist.
    Then I did remember the worst thing to happen to me.
    And the disgust and shame disguised itself as morning sickness. I bolted to the bathroom.
    Max called after me. “There’s another box of tissues under the sink.”
    Great.
    Just what I needed.
    I made it two months without breaking down. Two months of strength, courage, and the mental fortitude to survive an attack from that monster.
    And I cried over a box of tissues.
    Also because I wanted scrambled eggs, but the color, smell, taste, texture, and birthing process of eggs now nauseated me.
    I wept over the sun rise in the morning, and then again later while thinking about the sunrise that morning. I freaked out when Reed offered me his spot on the couch when all I wanted to do was pout while standing because I couldn’t decide if I had to use the bathroom or if I needed a nap.
    And at night, I muffled my sobs in the pillow because Nicholas respected my wishes and hadn’t returned to my bedroom since the day I first arrived.
    That wasn’t hormones. That was legitimate heartbreak.
    I didn’t want him with me. I couldn’t imagine spending another night without him.
    It was a mistake to return, but after another asthma attack landed my butt on the couch with my step-brothers hovering with medicines, water, and Lamaze breathing instructions courtesy of Reed’s damn baby book, I made the right decision. For the moment, this was my safest place.
    I finally had a full-night’s sleep, but, when I woke, I was more alone than when I was running hotel to hotel.
    It had to be Nicholas’s baby.
    So why was I fighting him?
    I didn’t bother returning to the kitchen. Reed built his house with junk food —prepackaged meals and snacks and everything easy to toss into a bag before heading to the beach. None of it looked or smelled good. It was best to avoid food.
    I snuck back to my room. Why did a baby the size of a walnut make me so damn tired? I hadn’t read beyond my current What To Expect From Week Eleven part of the baby book, but I hoped once the kid started to look more human and less tadpole it’d stop draining my energy.
    I’d need it.
    Especially tonight.
    At least I wasn’t showing, even with my grapefruit uterus. I double-checked the little black cocktail dress to ensure it hid every secret.
    The baby wasn’t visible, but the rest of Sarah Atwood sure was. I gaped at the mirror as Nicholas knocked against the door frame.
    He noticed too.
    “I need a shawl.” I turned to the side. My chest busted out of the neckline. We were beyond full or perky. “This looks a little vulgar.”
    “Wow.” Nicholas cleared his throat. “You look beautiful.”
    I wasn’t prepared for his compliments,