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As I sit down, preparing for the pain and the healing it signifies, I realize this tattoo isn't just about marking an end — it's about celebrating a new start, with Weston by my side even if for a little while.
I'm sitting in the conference room, trying my best to stay focused on Weston as he leads the team meeting, but it's a struggle. My mind is elsewhere, my body betraying me with this constant need to pee. This is the third time in the last hour, and I'm growing more nervous each time I have to stand and leave.
I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, hoping to hold off the inevitable. 'Not again,' I think, biting my lip. The frequent trips to the bathroom are starting to draw attention, and the last thing I want is for everyone to start wondering or, worse, speculating.
Weston is discussing quarterly projections, but all I can think about is how I can discreetly slip out again. 'Maybe if I wait for someone else to leave first,' I strategize, glancing around the room. But no one budges, all eyes glued to Weston and his presentation.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I quietly push my chair back and stand, murmuring a quick "Excuse me" to no one in particular. I dart out of the room, my cheeks burning, feeling every pair of eyes on my back.
In the bathroom, I quickly finish and wash my hands, but then a sudden wave of nausea hits me hard. "Shit," I mutter, rushing back into the stall. I'm in the middle of the miserable act when I feel someone holding my hair back. I panic for a moment before realizing it's Weston. My heart skips — he left the meeting for me.
"Weston, the meeting," I gasp out, embarrassment flooding me. "Greig's got it," he says, calmly. "You're my priority." His words make me want to cry. I've got less than two months left here, yet I'm falling for him, hard.
"But what if someone comes in?" I worry out loud.
"They won't. I locked the door," he assures me, helping me to the sink. "Why do you still care what people think?"
His question hits deep as I rinse my mouth out. I've already heard that there's rumors swirling around about us and I have to admit a small part of me is starting not to care as much as I did before.
I'm torn between the life I planned and the insatiable new world Weston has shown me — a world of pleasure I never knew I craved. I hardly stay at that dingy hotel anymore. Most nights I fall asleep wrapped in his arms after my body's completely spent from multiple orgasms. He pleasures me until I can't take anymore and I dream of nothing but him.
How can I even think of leaving all this behind?
"Quinn, you got sick last night," he points out.
I give a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe it was something I ate."
He looks at me skeptically. "And what about the night before?"
I face him, feeling defensive. "What are you getting at?"
He exhales slowly. "Pick up a pregnancy test tonight." My heart skips a beat at the thought, and he catches the worry in my eyes. "Let's just see what's going on. We'll face it together, okay?"
My silence hangs heavy in the air as the realization hits me- my last birth control shot was right before Leo passed. It's definitely worn off by now.
Weston closes the distance between us, his hands gripping my hips. "I need to finish the meeting. Take all the time you need."
I manage a small nod, too overwhelmed by the possibility to speak.
For the rest of the morning, I keep to myself, my mind elsewhere.
When lunchtime rolls around, Marissa pops her head into my office. "Hey, want to head out for lunch?" she asks.
I shake my head. "No, I've got some work to finish up on this project."
She leans casually against the door frame, her smile fading slightly. "You okay? You ducked out of the meeting earlier and—" I cut her off quickly. "I'm all good. Just a lot on my plate right now."
Her eyes narrow with concern. "Alright, just remember I'm here if you need to talk."
I offer a half-hearted smile. "Thanks, Marissa, I appreciate it."
As she walks away, I let out a silent sigh of relief and turn back to my work.
A short while later, Weston enters my office with a stack of files in his hand. He places them on my desk — the ones from our earlier meeting that I need to review. I look up at him, and he instantly seems to pick up on my mood.
Without a word, he walks around to my side of the desk. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss on the top of my head. Then, just as quietly as he came in, he walks out.
I appreciate how he understands my need for space. I'm battling with myself, trying to convince my heart that I'm not in love with him, but it's a losing fight; deep down, I know the truth. Now I'm stressed, how am I supposed to go back to California possibly pregnant and how am I supposed to leave the man I fell in love with behind? I'll be going home with more than a new tattoo and fresh bangs.
