Stealing Rose
Page 86

The guilt is heavy, almost too much to bear. Cash is laying it on thick, the ass. He knows just how to work me. I can hardly process the thought that Rose is pregnant. With my baby. “Have you had this confirmed? That Rose is really pregnant?”
“No. But it’s simple math, son. Two plus two equals baby.”
“I need to go to her,” I say, shaking my head when the waitress pauses by our table, a pitcher of iced tea held up high in her hand, indicating she wants to give me a refill. “But you’re right. I need a plan.”
“You need to tell her that you want to be with her not because she’s having your baby but because you love her.” Cash shakes his head. “Jackass move, leaving her that note, staying away from her so you can try and prove that you’re worthy.”
At the time it seemed like the right thing to do. We needed distance, because with distance comes clarity. I left her the note and went back to Mitchell’s house, hiding out there until we flew out of London that Sunday night. I immediately went to my job interview with Stanton first thing Monday morning and he gave me the position right then and there.
It all fell into place, just as I hoped it would. I’d work hard, save up, live a respectable life, and give up all criminal activity once and for all. I changed my phone number, not wanting any of those old temptations to call me and try to coerce me into something I shouldn’t be doing. No one could reach me, beyond Cash, Mom, and my new boss and fellow employees.
I am a new man. A working man. An honest man.
A man who’s going to be a father in approximately … “How far along is she?”
“You should know better than I do.”
I shrug, feeling like an idiot. I’m a guy. I don’t pay attention to those types of things. “Around two months I guess?” So I’ll be a father in seven months. I mentally count. There will be a baby born in March. My baby.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“She’s so young,” I tell Cash, soaking up the guilt that’s consuming me at the realization that I did this to her. I’m the one who got her pregnant. Does she hate me for it? Or is she happy that she’s having a baby? Does she feel all right? If she looks pale and is vomiting and fainting, then no, she can’t be. This pregnancy must be hard on her.
And I’m the one to blame.
“So,” Cash says, peering at me, his gaze hard. “Are you sure you’re ready for this type of responsibility? It’s big, son. It’ll change your entire life, leave you connected to this girl forever, whether you end up together or not. So know where you stand on this. Don’t go running to her declaring your true love for her and then ditch her months later. She’s going to need you more than ever. This is a huge commitment. So.” He stares at me hard and repeats himself. “You ready for this?”
Am I ready? I think I am. I should be. I left Rose because I didn’t feel worthy of her. I firmly believed she deserved a much better man and I would never measure up. I wrote that letter pouring my heart out on the pages and the minute I snuck out of her hotel room, leaving her all alone and sleeping naked in that bed, my baby already inside her and oblivious to what I’d just done, I became consumed with regret.
You don’t walk out on love. You stay and fight for it. You prove to the woman who means more to you than anyone or anything else that you will do whatever it takes to make her happy.
It’s been two long months now. More than enough time to fuck everything up. She might have changed her mind. She’s probably over me. She should be over me. I’d deserve that.
I don’t deserve her love.
I don’t deserve her.
But I’m going to do whatever it takes to get her back and make her mine. If I have to beg, cheat, borrow, or steal, I will do it.
Whatever it takes.
Because Rose Fowler belongs to me.
Chapter Twenty-six
Rose
Seven o’clock tonight. Don’t be late. And don’t forget!
I stare at Lily’s text and with an irritated sigh, I shove my cell back into my purse, then shut the desk drawer that I keep my purse in. Leaning my elbows on the edge of my desk, I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing gently. I have a headache and I’m not allowed to use ibuprofen, which sucks.
This baby is doing everything in its power to make me miserable, and the little booger is succeeding. I had no idea pregnancy was so damn hard, not that I’ve experienced it through anyone else, anyone close to me. None of my friends from school whom I’m still in contact with—and there are very few; most of us scattered in the wind the minute we graduated—have been pregnant. Most of them haven’t even gotten married yet.
I’m young. Only twenty-two. I saw the way the doctor looked at me when I went in for my appointment last week. No man with me, I’m sure I looked young and scared and hopeless. I don’t feel hopeless, though. Scared, yes. I heard the baby’s heartbeat at that appointment and I almost wanted to cry. It was loud and so fast. I rubbed my hand over my still flat belly for the rest of the night, knowing that there’s life in there. Real life, confirmed by my doctor.
“You’re young and healthy and with no prior medical conditions,” the doctor had told me before he exited the examination room. “This should be a very easy pregnancy.”
Easy for him to say. He isn’t the one living on crackers and ginger ale, hovering over a toilet in the middle of the night. I sleep with a plastic bowl on my bedside table just in case. I’ve been miserable.