Page 55 of Entrapped
The day after Christmas, Colson had a doctor at the house before the sun was fully up. I could hardly believe how quickly he’d arranged it. As I handed over the small cup of urine, nerves twisted in my stomach. The doctor assured me she’d have the results in no time, so I went to take a shower, trying to clear my mind.
The hot water cascaded over me, soothing some of the tension. I was in the middle of rinsing shampoo from my hair when I felt Colson’s presence behind me. His arms slid around my waist, pulling me close. His breath was warm against my ear.
“You’re pregnant,” he whispered.
The words hit me like a tidal wave, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I turned in his arms, burying my face in his chest, overwhelmed by the emotions that surged through me. I had always wanted a child, but I’d buried that dream so deeply, I hadn’t dared to hope it might come true. Colson held me tight, his lips pressing soft kisses into my wet hair.
“I want to be different for this child,” he murmured.
I pulled back slightly to look at him, and that’s when I noticed a bruise on his arm. A deep purple mark that stood out against his skin. I frowned and gently touched it, my fingers tracing the edges of the bruise.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, concern lacing my voice.
“I bumped into the weight bar while I was working out,” he replied casually.
I leaned down and kissed the bruise, as if my touch could make it better. “Does it hurt?”
He shook his head, then reached for the body wash and the purple poof from the shelf. With deliberate care, he began washing me from head to toe, his touch tender and attentive. I found myself savoring the way he cared for me, each gesture filled with a quiet devotion.
Later that morning, I tried to keep my excitement in check as I got to work, though the thought of coffee was no longer an option. I had to be cautious now, for the baby’s sake. The morning passed in a blur, and just before noon, Vaughn strolled into my office with a cup in his hand. He set it down in front of me with a smirk.
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing the cup suspiciously.”
“Herbal tea, now that you can’t drink coffee any longer,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I wrinkled my nose, not at all thrilled by the idea of herbal tea. I’d never been fond of it, but it looked like I’d have to get used to it for the next nine months—and however long I breastfed.
“I’m not pregnant,” I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction.
Vaughn crossed his arms, his gaze sharp. “My father told me otherwise. Admit it, Joey. That baby should be mine.”
My patience was wearing thin, and I rubbed at my temples, trying to stave off the headache brewing there. “You’ll have your own baby with Serena,” I said, attempting to deflect his attention.
But Vaughn wasn’t one to be easily deterred. He moved to the door, closed it, and then took a seat across from me, his expression serious. “I’m calling the engagement off,” he announced.
My heart skipped a beat, and my mouth fell open in shock. “You can’t.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why? What do you care?”
I cared because if he married Serena, at least he might leave me alone. The thought of him breaking things off with her sent a shiver of dread down my spine.
“How can you be so cruel? She’s in love with you,” I said, trying to appeal to whatever decency he had left.
“She’s not in love with me. She likes the idea of marriage to an Ashworth. But even if she was, I can’t love her when I love you,” he said, his voice low and intense.
I sighed, feeling the weight of his words press down on me. “Vaughn, you have to stop this. I’m with your father. And you don’t love me – you want what you can’t have.”
He didn’t need to know that I was in love with Colson or that Colson loved me back. Those were truths I clung to, but I couldn’t afford to let Vaughn see them.
Vaughn narrowed his eyes. “He’s almost forty-eight, Joey. That’s a twenty-five-year age difference. What will happen in twenty years when you’re still in the prime of your life and Colson is almost seventy?”
“Twenty-four years,” I corrected him. “I’ll be twenty-four in February.”
A grin spread across his face. “I remember. It’s Valentine’s Day.”
I ground my teeth, annoyed that he remembered. When we were kids, he’d given every girl in our class a Valentine’s card—except me. His excuse was that I didn’t deserve to celebrate twice.
“You’re an asshole,” I muttered, the old hurt resurfacing.
