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“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” I muse, smiling on the inside.
“At least nine months,” Danny adds.
“What?” James stops, looking between us.
“Pearl’s pregnant,” I say easily.
He laughs. Stops. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
James is silent, barely suppressing his amusement.
“You can laugh,” I say tiredly, looking at Danny, seeing he’s ready to burst again, too. I roll my eyes. “And you.”
I head back to my love, leaving behind two British assassins falling around the corridor, hysterical, crying with laughter.
And I smile.
So fucking wide, my face hurts.
76
PEARL
* * *
Did I imagine him here? Dream it? I move my eyes but not my head, looking at what I can. I’m still in the room with loud machines and hazy strip lighting. I see the doctor in the corner, writing notes.
“My love.”
I breathe in and wince, the pressure on my chest hurting.
“Easy,” Brad whispers, appearing above me. His smile would knock my socks off if I had any on. I return it as best I can and settle, trying to lift an arm to reach him but failing. He takes my hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I wish I could cuddle you.”
I smile again. I wish that too. I fight to clear my throat, feeling like a tennis ball is stuck there.
“Thirsty?”
I nod again, and Brad brings a straw to my mouth, his face twisting when I try to drink. I literally have nothing in me.
Pained, he sucks some water up through it, holding it in the straw and coming down to me. His lashes flicker, his eyes dancing, his stubble on the longer side of perfect. I open my mouth, and he releases, letting it trickle past my lips. It feels delightful, cold and refreshing. “More?” he asks, and I nod, so he goes again, sucking, holding, releasing until the glass is empty. I mourn the loss of his face so close, when I can study every gorgeous bit of it.
“What have”—another cough—“you been up to”—and one more—“while I’ve been away?”
He laughs lightly. “Don’t ask.” He dips and kisses my lips, and I hate that I can’t return it. “Is there something you need to tell me?” He pulls back and scans my face as I frown, thinking.
“I don’t . . . think so.”
“You sure?” he asks, head tilted.
I clear my throat again, forcing the lump and dryness away. “Well, I’ve been un . . . conscious for?—”
“Six hours.”
“Feels like six . . . years.”
“I know the feeling.” He raises his brows. “Are you sure?”
