Series: Sean Moriarty
Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Nodding, I pick Abel up and feel his forehead.
At first, he arches away from me and cries his complaints.
“What was his temperature?” I ask, feeling how warm he is.
“It was just over a hundred when I checked a couple of minutes ago,” Sonya answers.
Not good, but not too bad, either.
It could change any minute, though, depending on what’s causing it.
“Who the fuck are you?” Sonya says shrilly.
I twist around to see Jude walking through the open door. Caught off guard by the question, he freezes in place.
“He’s my boss,” I explain quickly. “He gave me a ride.”
Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Sonya narrows her eyes at Jude. “Boss, hmm?”
Looking at Jude, I try to see him as she sees him.
Dressed in a dark suit that’s been tailored to perfectly fit his frame, you could almost mistake him for a respectable businessman.
But the tattoos ruin the image.
Running down his hands and up his neck, combined with the suit, he looks more like a bad boy gangster from a movie than a man who trades stocks by day.
Crossing his arms in return, Jude looks Sonya up and down. Judging her the same way she’s judging him.
Before he can open his mouth and make this whole situation ten times worse, I get between them. “Thanks, Sonya. I really appreciate it. I’m going to take Abel home now and help him feel better.”
Blinking, Sonya tears her attention away from Jude and looks at me. “Do you have Tylenol? If you don’t, I have some I can send with you.”
I smile at her. “I do.”
Then I brush past Jude and walk out the door.
Demanding my attention, Abel grips the front of my dress and voices his complaints by crying some more. His big blue eyes filled with tears as he pleads for me to make him feel better.
“I know, sweetie,” I say softly and rub his back as I walk us down the few doors to our place. “Mommy knows you don’t feel good and I’m going to give you some medicine as soon as we’re home.”
Not happy with this, Abel cries louder.
And my heart cries with him.
I hate it when he’s sick like this. I hate it because it always makes me feel helpless.
I don’t know what’s wrong and he can’t tell me.
I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all go away.
Reaching the door to our house, I shift Abel to one arm and pull out my keys.
Before I can unlock the door, though, the keys are snatched from my hand.
“Here, let me,” Jude says.
Without bothering to wait for my permission, Jude unlocks my door and pushes it open.
It’s late, and the way Abel is crying is probably disturbing my neighbors, but I need to put an end to this right now.
“Thank you for the ride, Jude,” I say as calmly as possible. “But we’re good now. You can go.”
Snatching my keys from him, I walk inside and try to kick the door shut behind me.
But he pushes it back open and walks in like he has the right to do so. “I’m not leaving you.”
Fuck. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
I have a sick baby to take care of.
Shooting him a dirty look, I carry Abel over to the kitchen and yank open a cabinet. Grabbing a bottle of liquid Tylenol, I almost slam it down on the counter.
“Your presence and services are no longer wanted,” I say as I struggle to get the child-proof lid off one-handed.
Jude watches me struggle for a few moments then he smirks. Walking up to me, he grabs the bottle and twists the lid off.
“Oh?” he asks with a cocky lift of his brow.
I’m tempted to use my free hand to smack that smirk right off his face.
But unlike my husband, I don’t hit others when I’m frustrated.
I only hit them when they’re trying to kill me.
Gritting my teeth together, I point to the drawer instead. “There’s a dropper in there. Fill it from the bottle.”
Pulling open the drawer, Jude rummages around in all my odds and ends before producing the little dropper and holding it up. “Is this it?”
I nod and bounce Abel a little.
Closing the drawer, Jude picks up the bottle of Tylenol and dips the dropper inside. Scowling, he squeezes the bulb and pulls the dropper out.
Holding the dropper up for inspection, he asks, “Is this enough?”
“What does the line say?” I ask.
Narrowing his eyes, Jude reads the thin line. “Five milliliters.”
I shake my head. “That’s too much. He only gets two-point-five.”
Dipping the dropper back into the bottle, Jude squeezes some of the medicine out then lifts it back up.
“Fuck,” he growls. “Now it’s not enough.”
Biting my tongue, I watch him dip the dropper back in and pull it out.
Checking the line again, his frustration grows. “Now it’s too much. Whoever invented these things should be shot.”