Page 107 of Three Months Yesterday

Someone calls his name and Beckett quickly wipes his face before looking away and giving someone I can’t see a brief nod before his attention is back on me. “One down, twenty-nine to go.”

I smile and blow him a kiss, reaching forward to grab the phone from where it’s propped when Beckett’s eyes catch mine.

He looks at me, an intensity in his eyes so deep my breath catches. “Shepherd,” he says right before the screen goes dark.

Main Street is packed for a Tuesday afternoon, but I can’t say I blame anyone. The April sun is warm on my face, and after such a cold winter, it’s no surprise everyone is out to enjoy it.

“Is there a festival or something?” Ian asks from my side as we dodge a group of people clustered outside the bookstore.

“No. Probably just the weather.”

We pass the bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting through the open door. I’m deciding whether I have room for a cinnamon roll when a group surges toward us.

I step back to let them pass, releasing Ian’s arm, and feel the slight shove just before my foot catches on a dip in the sidewalk. Everything seems to move in slow motion after that, my hand instinctively shooting out to break my fall.

My wrist takes most of the impact and pain shoots up my arm as my hip hits the concrete, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

Terror pumps through me. I didn’t hit my belly, Shepherd’s fine.

“Madison.” Ian’s beside me in an instant, hands hovering over me like he can’t decide if he should touch me or not. “Are you okay?”

I don’t answer. I’m frozen, one hand pressed to my belly the other cradled to my chest.

“Madison.” Ian’s voice is firm, cutting through the panic. “Look at me.”

I meet his eyes. His face is pale, but his hands are steady when they grip my arms.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” he says, no room for argument in his tone.

But I don’t want to argue with him. I know it’s the right call.

Ian helps me to my feet, his arm solid around my waist, and I lean into him more than I want when my hip screams in protest. My wrist throbs and I still haven’t felt Shepherd move.

“Don’t call Beckett,” I whisper as Ian guides me toward his truck.

“Madison—”

“I’m gonna tell him. I just want to be the one to do it.”

Ian stops at the passenger door, pulling it open and helping me in before he looks at me, his jaw set in that stubborn line I’ve seen more times that I’d like to admit.

“Please, Ian. If I call him now, he’ll panic and do something drastic. Let’s get answers from the doctor and then call.”

He studies me for a long moment, before he gives a curt nod. “Okay. But if the doctor says anything concerning, I’m calling him myself.”

“Deal.”

The doctor’s office is blessedly quick. Blood pressure normal—or at least normal for me at the moment—heartbeat strong. The cramping I was afraid to admit was likely from the impact, Braxton Hicks triggered by the stress of the fall. Nothing serious, just a sprained wrist and a bruised hip.

Ian drives me home in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I know he’s upset I still haven’t called Beckett, but I want to do it from home. With one of Beckett’s flannels wrapped around me.

At the house, he follows me inside as he does every day, but this time he disables the alarm as I make my way to the couch.

“I’m gonna call Beckett now,” I promise him.

He nods, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “Do you need anything?” His words are softer than I expect.

“No, I’m good.”