Nine Month Countdown. Leah Ashton
The toilet flushed beside her, then footsteps, and then the cubicle door closed. The basin had some silly sensor arrangement to turn on, and Ivy had to wait as the other woman tried to work it out, and then listen to her jump and giggle when the water finally gushed out.
Just go. Just go, just go, just go.
But also just stay. Stay, stay, stay for ever, so she never had to look down, never had to know.
But then she wasn’t into delaying things, was she? That was why she was here, in this public toilet, holding the test.
Because she couldn’t wait. Couldn’t even wait until her ten a.m. meeting was over. She’d excused herself mid meeting, and now she’d taken way, way too long.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and Ivy was finally alone amongst all this marble and the softest of background music.
And now she had to look down.
And now she couldn’t lie to herself that she was just being silly, and that there was nothing to worry about, and that she was on the pill and even if she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t forgotten a pill amongst all the time zones and delays on the way to April’s wedding that surely the odds were still in her favour. Because people tried to do this for years and it didn’t work. People who were trying, people who wanted this, people...
Two pink lines.
She’d looked down only to confirm what she already knew. What she’d known deep down for the past two-hundred-odd minutes since the absence of her period had suddenly dawned on her.
She was pregnant.
She was pregnant.
Ivy took a deep, audible breath, and willed the tears in her eyes to go still. Then she stuffed the test back into its box, back into its pharmacy paper bag and back into her handbag.
Then she went back to the meeting with her business face on and no one—she hoped liked hell—was the wiser.
No, only one person knew that Ivy Molyneux’s life had just completely fallen apart.
And unfortunately, that number would soon have to increase to two.
* * *
Angus’s feet pounded on the heavy rubber of the treadmill, his breaths coming slow and regular.
Sweat had long ago soaked his grey T-shirt black, and the muscles of his calves and thighs had given up protesting and now simply burned.
This was the bit he loved. This time after he’d conquered the arguments from both his brain and body and simply kept on going.
He’d been like this since his late teens, since the sudden death of his father. He’d gone for his first run immediately after his mum had told him the terrible news—an impossibly long run fuelled by intense, raging grief. And that run had triggered a near addiction that had him craving the adrenalin rush of exercise, craving the burn, and craving the pain.
He had no issue admitting that one of the reasons he’d joined the army was so he could be paid to reach this high. On some days he couldn’t believe his luck that he earned his living effectively living out many a childhood fantasy—the helicopters, the firearms, the boats, the tactical training...
Angus shook his head as he ran, shifting his focus back to his body.
Running on a treadmill was not his preference. Here in the gym at the barracks, he’d much rather be lifting weights, or, even better, completing a punishing PT session with the rest of his squadron.
But when it came down to it, the method was irrelevant. Winning the battle over his body was what mattered. Especially now, especially while injured.
Technically he was on medical leave, but clearly losing physical condition wasn’t an option in his job. He’d been down at the barracks daily, excluding that weekend in Bali. Even there he’d made locating the hotel gym a priority.
Except the morning after the wedding. That morning he’d slept in.
Despite the sweat and the screaming of his muscles, Angus grinned.
Ivy must have worn him out.
He reached out to slow the speed on the treadmill, reducing his pace from near sprint down to a brisk walk as he cooled down.
It wasn’t the first time the beautiful billionaire had popped into his head. It surprised him. There had been no question as to what that night had been. Neither he nor Ivy wanted anything beyond those few...admittedly incredible...hours on that beach.
Angus smiled again as he remembered the way Ivy had taken charge as they’d walked back to the hotel.
If anyone asks—I was in my suite, working.
He’d grinned then, too. And how would I know that?
She’d just glared at him, and protested silently when he insisted on walking her to her room. He had, of course, checked that no one would see them.
He wasn’t a total jerk, after all.
Although kissing her on her doorstep had not been gentlemanly—or planned.
He’d seen it in her eyes—and felt it in her body—that she’d been about to invite him in. But she hadn’t.
And he would’ve declined, anyway. He was sure.
It was for the best.
In his experience, keeping things simple was always for the best.
Later, after his shower and as he walked across the car park, he felt his phone vibrating in the backpack slung over his shoulder. Automatically he fished it out, then, on seeing it was an unknown number, considered for a moment whether he should bother answering.
Work-related numbers weren’t stored on his phone, of course—but then, no one was going to be calling him while he was on leave.
But could it be to do with his mum?
So he answered it, if a bit gruffly, and was certainly not expecting the contradictory soft but firm—and familiar—female voice he heard.
‘Is that Angus Barlow?’
‘Ivy Molyneux,’ he replied, and then smiled when she gave a little sound of surprise.
‘Uh—yes,’ she said. A pause. ‘I asked Evan for your number.’
She was nervous, her words brisker than normal.
‘That wasn’t very discreet,’ he said.
Hell, it didn’t bother him. Ivy could’ve announced the fact they’d had sex on the beach to the whole wedding reception and he wouldn’t have cared.
But he knew she did.
Unease prickled at the back of his neck.
‘No, it wasn’t discreet at all,’ Ivy said, her words pancake flat.
Then there was a long, long pause.
‘Why did you call me, Ivy?’ He was gruff now.
She cleared her throat. ‘Are you free tonight?’ she asked, much more softly.
Relief washed over him. He’d continued walking as they’d been talking, and now he propped a shoulder against the side of his black SUV.
He smiled. He remembered that tone from that night. That soft, intimate—almost shy—voice. So different from the brash confidence of Ivy Molyneux, mining executive.
He was jumping at shadows. Ivy Molyneux was a woman who went after what she wanted. This phone call was nothing more. Unexpected, but also—not unwelcome.
‘I’m free,’ he said. ‘How about we meet at Ms Black at eight?’
A wine bar in Subiaco he’d visited with the rest of his squadron after they’d returned from their latest assignment—before they’d quickly relocated