Waiting Read Online Xavier Neal

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Insta-Love Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
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The shaking of my head is immediate.

Her nodding is reluctant.

My wordless argument continues over and over and over as I wildly whip my face around in denial.

I didn’t fuck this up.

I got here on time!

I got us here with time to spare!

I did everything I fucking could!

Everything I was supposed to!

The kid was on life-support due to the doctors knowing we were coming…how could her body still crap out on her?

Why did it have to fail her?!

She was so fucking young!

Jo Jo’s shoulder sag expressing the defeat I feel leaves me with no choice but to shut my eyes to stop the tears from falling.

I can’t cry.

Not now.

They need to be strong.

This is my team.

If I don’t lead it, more die.

And I do not want nor need more of this shit on my conscience.

The smallest sniffle is given prior to me shaking off the sadness. “Wait for Dr. Campbell inside where it’s warm. I’ll begin preparing the aircraft for our return. I need to verify whether or not there’s anything we need to transfer back.”

She offers me nodding of comprehension, short dirty blonde hair bouncing around as she tries to keep it together.

Her first assignment that ended in death.

It hasn’t happened often during my time in charge, but it has happened.

Sadly, it doesn’t get any easier.

Each time an organ fails to reach an intended match it hurts just as much as it did the first time.

I hate that pain.

That haunting ache.

The nightmares that ensue.

It’s hard to ignore the nagging in my mind that’s telling me that I’ll hate all that shit even more once my own child is born.

It’s moments like this that prove Nat’s right.

I do need someone there for me.

Someone whose shoulder I can lean on.

Cry on.

And that someone – for better or for worse – is Tate O’Clery.

Chapter 14

Tate

“Sorry again, Geoff,” I sheepishly apologize into the phone, head rotating back and forth between watching the front door and Viva Las Vegas on our flatscreen. “You know I wouldn’t cancel if I didn’t have to.”

“I absolutely understand,” he instantly retorts, concern dripping in his tone. “Family emergencies are not something we predict. Do let me know if there is anything I can do you or for them.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I will call Nix now and let him know we will be postponing the paperwork a couple days. If there are any other interested buyers, I trust that he will find a clever way to deter them until we can officially sign.”

Sounds like the guy I went to high school with alright.

I’m not sure if he ever gave an English report the day he was assigned.

It was an impressive track record many of us admired.

“Thanks again, Geoff.”

He offers one more sentiment of understanding before hanging up. Afterward, I scroll through my texts hoping that Harper has sent another message, yet there’s nothing other than the one from Friday that basically told me she wouldn’t be coming home all weekend. I had someone pick up my shifts for the last two day in hopes that she was full of shite, but she wasn’t. I’ve been here binging on pizza and pints, policing the door like a bloody puppy in need of a petting, around the clock.

Not answering my messages is one thing.

Avoiding our home is infinitely worse.

And it is our home.

I bought those Dalvegan throw pillows we literally randomly throw at each for fun. And I was the one who picked out the new flowers for the garden. And we repainted the guest room together thanks to my cousins saying all the white made them feel like they were in a psych ward. These floors are cleaned by me, just like the laundry is typically done by her. This couch is where we nap to old movies.

Eat potato soap.

Shag like mad teens with a ridiculously early curfew.

Bloody hell, our lives are so intertwined it’s impossible to imagine ever living them separately again.

Fuck.

We are so intertwined I cannot picture us ever not being.

And that baby she’s carrying – blood fucking hell I hope she wasn’t bluffing – will only have us become intertwined in the permanent way I’ve been dying for since she looked in my eyes that first night she walked back into Arthur’s.

All of sudden, the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, sparks a pounding in my chest. Causes the blood to rush to my ears. Ignites a throbbing I can barely hear anything over. I struggle to take the deep breath I know I need in order to articulate what it is I’m anxious to say.

Beauty of speaking three languages is there’s always one to win women over with while the curse is not communicating in all of them at once when you’re frustrated or livid.

When the front door opens, I immediately greet her with a warm and loving Irish welcome, “Maidin mhaith, álainn.”



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