Page 68 of Betrothal or Breakaway

I rush toward my phone and tap the screen to pull up the texts and take a moment to read them. I gasp at his comments, covering my hand with my mouth.

Ford stands, his face as dreary as a sad puppy. Realizing I never responded to his apology, I place a hand on his forearm. “Ford, it’s okay. I have nothing to hide. I’m just in shock that Theo texted after a year of silence.” I shake my head, dropping my hand and letting it fall at my side.

Ford exhales a breath, probably relieved that I’m not mad at him, then he asks, “You saw his mom?”

“After Thanksgiving,” I admit. “I’d completely forgotten about it. I ran into her in the grocery store, and she was pretty stunned to see Nella. It looked like she was doing the math in her head. But then she rushed off and I never heard another thing from her—or Theo.” I slump down on the bed. “Until now.”

Ford sits down beside me, but he doesn’t crowd me. He’s good at giving people space, since he needs space himself. “He’s still a prick.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “Yep.”

“What do you want to do? Do you want Nella to know them?” he asks softly, and I look up, meeting his eyes. There’s no judgment on his face. I know he’d support me either way.

I groan. “I don’t know. I’d hate for her to not know them if she wants to, but she’s not old enough to tell me, obviously. Selfishly, I want nothing to do with them. His mother wasn’t very friendly to me, and Theo left me.” Tossing my phone onto the bed, I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “I need some time to think about it. His tone doesn’t make me want to hurry to respond.”

“I could throttle him for talking to you like that.” Ford’s voice is rough. I glance at his profile and see he’s clenching his jaw.

I place my hand on his thigh and offer him a sad smile. This is my issue to deal with, and I don’t want my drama affecting him. That wouldn’t be fair.

His jaw flexes, but he rests his warm hand on top of mine.

“I’m sorry. I feel like we’ve turned your life into a living, breathing tornado.”

He looks at me, his brown eyes locking with mine. “Thankfully, I’ve always liked storms.”

Unable to hold back, I throw my arms around his neck and hold on tight. If there’s going to be a storm, I wouldn’t want to weather it with anyone else.

Two days later, I have a follow-up appointment with my cardiologist. Ford had to be at practice, and Sally stayed home with Nella. So, it’s just Farrah and me in the waiting room. She came along because someone had to drive me here since I’m not cleared to drive yet. Hopefully, today I’ll be cleared for all normal activities and can start seriously looking for a job and childcare.

A nurse opens the door to the waiting room and studies her clipboard. “Mrs. Remington?”

My heart flutters at the name, and I stand. “That’s me.”

Farrah winks at me, grabbing a cooking magazine and making herself comfortable in the waiting room chair.

The nurse leads me to the same room where I had my preop appointment. She takes my vitals and asks me some questions. Her questions make me nervous, but after listening to my heart rate she smiles and says it sounds great.

She leaves and my cardiologist, Dr. Montgomery, enters shortly after. “You’re looking great, Amber. Healthy and happy,” she says, tugging her stethoscope up to her ears. She gets right to work listening to my heart and nodding her approval at what she hears.

I release a deep breath. I didn’t realize I was even holding my breath, and Dr. Montgomery chuckles at the sound.

A nurse comes in and hooks me up for an EKG, just to make sure everything is good to go. Dr. Montgomery stays in the room with the nurse, and they seem pleased with whatever the EKG is showing.

“You’re recovering well, and your heart rate sounds perfect. You can rest easy now, okay?” She smiles, draping her stethoscope across the back of her neck. “Have you experienced any dizziness or blurred vision?”

“Nope,” I answer. “I’ve felt great except for the soreness where the incision is.”

She nods. “Yes, that’s to be expected. Do you need more pain medication?”

“No, I’m doing okay with Tylenol.”

She takes a seat on her roller-stool, the one they seem to have in every doctor’s office. “I think you’re free to resume regular activities. Driving, working, sex.”

I blink and I know my cheeks must be bright red.

She looks away, probably noting my embarrassment. Dr. Montgomery types some notes on the computer resting on the small desk.

Finally, she turns back to me. “Do you have any questions or concerns?”

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