Page 144 of The Proposal

“Her water just broke,” I blurt out. “The baby’s coming.”

“Holy crap.”

“Don’t just stand there,” I snap. “Do something.”

“Do what?”

“Fucked if I know.”

“Calm down,” Arabella says in a voice too soft and controlled for my liking, especially when a full-blown war rages inside me.

I knew this day was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be right now. I’ve been psyching myself up for the past two weeks, but I’m realising that I’m in no way prepared.

I’m not going to lie; as the due date crept closer, my anxiousness grew, but in true, stubborn Mancini style, our child decided it was not arriving until it was well and truly ready.

Arabella is currently two days overdue. The doctors booked her in to be induced at the end of the week, but I guess that’s not happening now.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lucia cries as tears fill her eyes.

“You’re a woman; shouldn’t this shit come naturally?”

“That comment is both sexist and offensive. I haven’t even had sex. I don’t know the first thing about giving birth.”

“What about those books you read? If the characters are fucking all the time, surely one of them is bound to get knocked up sooner or later.”

Her eyes narrow as she opens her mouth to reply, but when Arabella doubles over in pain again, we both freeze. The blood-curdling scream that follows sends shivers coursing down my spine.

“Do something,” I plead as my panicked gaze moves back to Lucia.

“I don’t know what to do, Dante.”

“Call an ambulance,” Arabella grumbles.

“Okay … I can do that,” Lucia replies. “I’ll go get my phone.”

“Use mine, it’s on the bed,” I tell her.

When the pain passes, Arabella wiggles in my arms. “Put me down.”

“No!”

“Put. Me. Down,” she growls, and her tone is so ferocious I find myself immediately complying.

“What’s the phone number? Nine-one-one?”

“Give me that,” Arabella snaps, snatching the phone out of her sister’s hand.

“What was that for?” Lucia asks, frowning.

“It’s triple zero here in Australia,” I chime in. “Nine-one-one is the emergency number for America.”

“Oh.”

“You two may as well go back to bed; I’ve got this,” Arabella says, rolling her eyes as she brings the phone to her ear.

I rear back as her words cut through my panic like a sharp knife, grounding me. She needs me, and here I am, letting my fear take control. I should be her calm in the storm, her rock, the one she can always rely on. Instead, I’m acting like an emotional fucking mess.

I gently—and dare I say dubiously—take the phone out of her hand and guide her towards the bed. “Sit,” I order. “I’ll handle things from here.”

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