Page 64 of His Relentless Angel

Miranda: Please kids. You’re going to give him a real heart attack

Autumn: Don’t want papi/daddy to end up in the hospital

Autumn: I just threw up in my mouth

“Christ, this is really bad,” Bailey says.

I wince, standing up and limping toward the linen closet to grab an armload of towels to sop up all the water so that Bailey doesn’t fall when I help her out of the tub. “I know. We’re never going to live this down,” I say, wrapping one of the clean towels around her.

“No, I mean this.” She waves to her belly.

“This…what?”

She grabs both my hands, lets the towel fall to her ankles, and splays my palms over her lower belly. With wide, stark white eyes, Bailey whispers, “What if Eden’s right? The doctor said I’m measuring larger than normal.”

“No. Don’t…no. Not happening.”

“What if she’s right?!”

I grab her by the shoulders. “Breathe, baby! We’ve seen the ultrasound images. Two babies. Twins. That’s it. No way are we having triplets, ok?”

Chapter 24

Bailey

We are, in fact, having triplets.

Fuck my life.

My beautiful, amazing, dream come true life.

But still.

Fuck.

Chapter 25

Bailey

Eden, who is a freelance hair and makeup artist and does seriously stunning work, goes to apply my winged eyeliner for the fifth time, but I stop her. “There’s no use. I can’t stop crying. Why can’t I stop crying?!”

She tilts her head, fluttering her face-framing brown curls. “Is that a rhetorical question?” She combs back some of my flyaway hairs and secures one of the tiny gerbera daisies woven into the braided floral crown on my head with a crystal-tipped bobby pin.

“You jinxed me, you know.” I glare at her in the brightly lit mirror when she stands behind me, spraying something on my hair to prevent the barrel waves of my half-down hair beneath the crown from falling flat. I palm my belly, which is growing at an alarming rate with each passing day thanks to the triplets. I’ve taken apart my wedding gown three times total to add more fabric around the waist. Even my white, silky bridal robe can hardly be belted around me. “This is your fault.”

Eden makes an adorable soft giggle, the makeup around her maple brown eyes flawless and not running down her face like mine is. “Blame Isaiah, honey, not me.”

I do. All the time. They’re his babies that have my hormones swinging wildly out of control, making me cry an ungodly amount of tears at literally anything and everything. My skin is raw from constantly wiping my cheeks with a tissue. I thought I could hold it together for our wedding, but I cried when I woke up in bed without him since we spent the night before the wedding apart—the first night ever since Austin—and I haven’t stopped crying since.

I’m just so happy, but you’d never know it with how swollen and red my face is. I’ve also given up on foundation since my tears keep ruining it, and I had to ask Eden to wipe it off.

The young male photographer has been tiptoeing around me all morning. Bless his heart, he’s doing his best, trying to get a shot where I actually look happy for once, but it’s just not going to happen. I’ve already agreed to upgrade the photography package to have my complexion heavily edited in our photos so I don’t look so blotchy and miserable.

At least my wedding dress is stunning, as heavy as it is with all the added material. It was a true test of my skills, having to hand-sew most of the delicate, lacy floral appliques to the bodice made of white silk organza. Another challenge? Finding any kind of modesty with a plunging neckline and tits that are growing as fast as my belly. Good god, I had to pick my battles. I’ll apologize to Nicole later for all the cleavage…and also for the high slit I had to add if I didn’t want to take my dress apart for the fourth time. Swear to her that the top had been modest when I cut the pattern.

Surprisingly, it’s when I’m fully dressed and makeup-free, holding my bouquet of roses, tulips, and daisies dyed a variety of muted orange tones, that I can finally smile and hold my tears in, my heart singing with joy at the thought of seeing my love standing at the altar. I stare at the closed, heavy wood double doors, holding the crook of Dad’s arm, waiting for the music to shift once our flower girl, Mirabel, finishes sprinkling the flower petals down the aisle.

“You know,” Dad says, patting my arm, “this is usually when the father-of-the-bride asks if she’s sure she wants to go through with the wedding.” He winks when I give him crazy eyes. “Don’t need to ask you that, now do I?”

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