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“Can I think about it?”
“Of course.”
She turned the handle. “Okay. I’ll, uh, make another appointment for my bloodwork.”
I nodded as she opened the door, unable to take my eyes off her as she squeezed through, the door held half-closed by the chair on the floor. Despite everything, the IVF, the fake engagement, her goddamn hotheadedness, her angering curiosity—I just wanted her to come back. I wanted to drag her back in, wrap my arms around her, kiss her and fucking take her on the examining table, shredding the paper covering it like confetti as I buried myself inside of her.
This was bad.
This was really, horribly, fucking bad.
Chapter 6
Sophie
Tuesday
Even the late-morning light filtering in through my upstairs window couldn’t erase what had happened yesterday from my mind. The anxiety and adrenaline still pumped through my system, and I’d barely gotten any sleep last night. Instead, I’d spent the entirety of the early morning hours tossing and turning in bed before turning on the television, mindlessly flipping from one show to another trying to distract myself. I’d resisted the temptation of my vibrator not once, not twice, but three fucking times, because despite how insane it all was, I was annoyingly turned on by every thought of Dr. Brady.
Dr. Hudson fucking Brady.
Why was I bestowed the worst luck?
I wasn’t one to feel regret often nor was I one to back myself out of opportunities. But as I paced across the tile floor in my bedroom, eyes glued to my full-length mirror across the space and the person reflecting back at me, I found myself wishing I hadn’t acted the way I had yesterday. I’d jumped to conclusions—logical conclusions, to be fair—and painted him in a bad light. I’d accused him of arranging the entire thing as if he somehow already knew my intentions and plans. I’d been surprised, angry even, to see him the moment that door had opened.
And I’d closed it without a second thought.
The temptation to look out my window and into his backyard gnawed at the back of my mind even though I knew he wouldn’t be there. He’d be at the practice, as the receptionist had so happily relayed when I asked for an appointment to do my bloodwork.
I stopped in front of the mirror, taking in every inch of my disheveled form, wrapped tightly in my plush robe. My hair, thrown up into a bun on the top of my head, had mostly fallen out of its ponytail holder and fell in strands around my face. The same face with sunken eyes and dark circles beneath them, my tell when I hadn’t slept well.
Turning to the side, I kept my gaze locked on myself, and much like I did every morning, I imagined what I would look like with a little bump for a stomach, and then a larger one, and larger still until I pictured myself nine months pregnant, walking like a beached whale and complaining about how I was over it. I placed a hand against my flat abdomen, wishing I felt something, anything, but as that fucking pregnancy test had confirmed yesterday I wasn’t pregnant.
I wanted to throw up, and I wished it was morning sickness.
After a shower, I made myself lunch because I’d woken far too late to call it breakfast, and forced myself to think about anything other than Hudson as I sat down to get some work done.
By the time an hour had passed, I’d drafted a new pattern for a dress that would sit nicely over a baby bump. I had to constantly remind myself that the dress would look nice without one as well because I desperately needed to keep my hopes grounded in realism. I knew Hudson was the best fertility doctor around. I’d done my research, and I’d searched up other clinics before landing on his, but I couldn’t get my hopes up. It would be a miracle if I ended up pregnant at his hand.
Nope. No, do not think about him like that.
But I’d already gone down that road. I’d already spent the entire evening thinking about him, his hands on my body and in my hair, his cock inside of me and filling me so wholly that I never wanted to be empty again. I never should have looked out that stupid, godforsaken window.
I snorted at the idea that going to church with my parents would somehow erase that.
As I hand-sewed appliqués onto a custom dress a customer had ordered from me, my thoughts drifted again to my parents, and I ended up feeling slightly nauseous with the regret of involving Hudson at all, and the embarrassment from running across our lawns, barefoot and overwhelmed. It was one of those things that would undoubtedly keep me up in the middle of the night for years to come, long after I’d forgotten about Hudson and long after I had my own little one.
Grounded hopes, Sophie.
But realistically I did need a fake fiancé. At least until I managed to get pregnant. Then I could, theoretically, kill him off or make up a sob story about how he cheated on me so I left him. The idea of looking after Hudson’s kid wasn’t exactly unappealing. I’d seen him playing in the front yard before, had waved to him a few times, and found myself wanting to know his name and what he likes, found myself wanting to mother him the way I felt with practically every child I came across. Being broody had sent me down that spiral.
A knock at my door startled me, ripping me from my thoughts. I pressed pause on the playlist I had going and hopped up from my chair, nearly poking my finger with the needle as I stabbed it into the little pin cushion on my wrist. Must be the shipment for that new chiffon I ordered.
I slid across the smooth floor toward the door in my socks, my damp hair piled into another, neater bun on top of my head. I didn’t mind delivery drivers seeing me makeup-less, clad in my satin shorts and crop top, nipples poking at the cotton fabric. I’d been caught in less before, and considering I worked from the comfort of my own home, alone, I didn’t see the need to dress up for them. But as I pulled the door open, I found myself deeply regretting my decisions.
Dr. Brady—Hudson—stared at me from my front stoop. The temptation to shut the door in his face was so powerful but I restrained myself.
I watched his eyes as they wandered up and down my body, from head to sock-covered toe, and felt more exposed than I did when I’d been caught staring at him through my bedroom window. He stood in his blue scrubs, his muscular arms on display and the fabric hugging far too tightly on his powerful thighs. His black hair, normally pushed back and away from his face, hung around his temples in waves, brightening the heavy green of his irises.
