Mine (Real, #2)(37)

All three doctors say I can’t travel. All three of them say I’ll miscarry for sure if I don’t get rest.

Bed rest.

And a progesterone cream.

That’s what they tell us I need.

They don’t know that what I need is my blue-eyed devil, and the thought of being separated for two months, until I’m past the first trimester and out of the danger zone, makes me want to weep.

Now Remy is sprawled in his usual seat, his head flung back as he stares at the ceiling of the plane, absently stroking my hair.

He looks about as miserable as I feel. I can still hear him, sternly telling both the doctors he summoned to the hotel room—when they prescribed “no travel” and “bed rest” for me—“That’s impossible. I need her with me. She goes where I go.”

And when the third doctor said that he was sorry and left, I remember begging pathetically, “You can’t seriously be thinking of sending me back? Right? Remington, I’ll lie down. I won’t f*cking move. This is your son. He’s going to hang in there! He will. I don’t see how being sent away will stress me any less. I don’t want to go home. I’ll stay in bed all day, just don’t take me back!”

He looked so frustrated, ready to tear something in half with his bare hands as he told Pete, “Get the plane ready.” And then he turned to me, and looked at me with blue eyes that lost all their sparkle. He didn’t even have time to explain because I started crying.

And here we are now.

Sucking balls.

Forty thousand feet above the ground, flying to Seattle.

I lie across the bench with my head on his lap, my face tipped up as he strokes his fingers through the length of my ponytail, and then into my scalp. He’s been staring at the ceiling for an hour, his chest expanding, slowly, as though each breath is meant to calm him but doesn’t quite succeed.

My heart hurts when I think of how much effort it’s going to take him not to let this f*ck with his head. I want to whisper reassurances, but I can’t even seem to speak, I’m so pissed at life for throwing me a curveball again.

Suddenly, he starts kissing me softly, first the top of my ear, then my earlobe, then the center nook, his hot breath sending shivers through me as he part breathes, part growls out words that seem to be wrenched from out of him. My eyes burn and I’m sure I’ve got a dagger sticking out of my chest as he tells me, “I’m going to miss you . . . I’m going to need you to be good . . . take care of yourself . . . I need you . . .”

My throat feels so swollen I can only nod as I watch him reach into his jeans and pull out a platinum credit card.

“Use it,” he whispers.

I suppose Melanie would die if a man gave her a credit card, but I don’t want to go on a shopping spree or something. I don’t want . . . anything but my life. I want our baby to be all right. I want us to be together. I want my new life, on tour, with him.

“Brooke,” he warns, and I feel him tuck the card into my palm. “I want to see charges. Daily,” he warns. He looks down at me with half a grin, his black hair standing up more than usual, his scruff even darker this morning because he didn’t shave, and how can you love someone so much that it burns through you? I love the way his sooty lashes frame his blue eyes, and the exact slant of his eyebrows. I love his hard forehead, cheekbones, and jaw, and how his mouth manages to look both plump and soft, but firm and strong.

Raising my arm, I drag the tips of my fingers along the square line of his jaw. “When I came back, I promised myself I’d never leave you.”

“I promised myself I’d never let you go. What else do you expect me to do?” His eyes are dark and tortured, and I know he didn’t sleep.

He paced all night, curling and uncurling his fingers as he asked me if I felt any pain. Yeah, I did. I felt little stabs in my heart, and said, no cramping. He returned to bed to gather me close, kissing me like he wanted to devour me. I remember every movement of his tongue on mine. The temperature of his breath on my face. And how many times he tore his lips away, kissed my forehead, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Because we’re not allowed to make love either.

So our last night together, we spent kissing. And the several times he took a cold shower, I spent crying into my pillow.

Now he brushes loose strands of hair behind my forehead, his eyes holding mine. “We’re going to be all right, little firecracker,” he whispers to me. He runs his gaze down my body and spreads his hand open on my stomach. The proprietary gesture makes my heart burn with love. “We’ve got this.” He rubs me softly through my cotton shirt, looking down at me with tender blue eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Of course we do,” I say, with a sudden surge of determination. “It’s just two months, right?”

He tweaks my nose. “Right.”

“And it’s not like we can’t communicate in other ways.”

“Exactly right.”

Sitting up, I rest my forehead on his shoulder, and he slides his hand around my waist as I massage his muscle. “Let your body rest. Ice yourself after your workouts. Warm up properly.”

He buries his face in my neck and pulls me closer, and I hear us both scenting each other with the deepest breaths possible. His hand clenches on my hip bone, and suddenly he licks my neck, his voice guttural when he rumbles in my ear, “I can’t let anything happen to you, Brooke. I can’t. I had to bring you back.”