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“Don’t thank me,” I say, picking up her foot and working my thumb along her arch. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”
Once the door install is done, we spend nearly every night at the ranch. The rhythm shifts. Her stuff slowly moves into my bedroom. She owns the space without even trying. Just like she claimed my goddamn heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TINSLEY
Everything is going great. Or, at least, it was until this morning. I wake up to the sound of the ranch coming alive outside the window and lie there for a moment in the particular warmth of Hudson’s bed, thinking that all is fine. Then the ceiling tilts, and I barely have time to rush to the bathroom before puking up my guts. Thank God, Hudson had an early morning flight to Dallas for a meeting, so he misses the whole thing.
Once it’s all over, I feel much better, so I figured there’s no harm in going to work. Which turns out to be a big freaking mistake. By lunchtime, my body decides to stage a coup, and the lobby at Montoya Investments is the primary battleground. It starts as a low-grade hum of nausea at my desk, the kind I tried to blame on the extra espresso I drank on the way to work, but has quickly escalated into a full-blown internal riot.
The fluorescent lights overhead seem to pulse with a malicious, rhythmic throb, vibrating against my temples.
When it gets to be too much to handle, I decide to grab a bottle of water. I push through the heavy swinging door of the break room, needing a second to breathe, to convince myself that I'm just coming down with the flu. Instead, I’m hit by a wall of scent so aggressive it feels like a physical shove to the chest. Someone who clearly lacks basic human empathy has decided to microwave leftover salmon.
The smell is pungent, oily, and thick enough to chew. It wraps around my throat like a cold hand, and my stomach doesn't just churn; it heaves. The metallic tang of sudden saliva coats my tongue, a warning sign that the battle is already lost. I don't even have time to offer a sharp word to the culprit sitting at the corner table, blissfully unaware of the biological warfare they've just unleashed. I turn on my heel and sprint, my heels clicking frantically against the marble.
I make it to the bathroom just as the first wave hits. I barely have time to kick the stall door shut before I'm on my knees, my polished professional veneer dissolving into the cold, clinical reality of throwing up in Montoya Investments’ bathroom. It's violent and exhausting, the kind of sickness that leaves your eyes watering and your throat burning with the sting of bile. I clutch the edges of the stall, my knuckles turning white against the shiny metal.
I sit back on my heels, the cool marble of the floor seeping through my slacks, providing a momentary anchor in the chaos. My breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches. The fluorescent lights in here hum with a relentless, buzzing energy that makes the spots in my vision dance.
A terrifying thought flickers at the edge of my mind, small and insistent. I try to brush it away, to categorize it as stress or a lingering stomach bug from the rainy night with Hudson, but my brain is already doing the math. I'm a careful person. I document things. I track my cycles with precision. And I’m regular as clockwork.
I count the days in my head, then count them again, hoping the numbers will shift. They don't. Fourteen days. Two weeks. I’m never two weeks late. A heavy, sinking weight settles into the center of my chest. I stare at the speckled gray pattern of the stall door, the silence of the restroom suddenly feeling like a vacuum sucking the air right out of my lungs.
I stand up, my legs feeling like they're made of wet cardboard. I wash my face with freezing water, watching my reflection in the spotted mirror. Damn. I look like hell.
I leave work early, offering a vague excuse about a migraine to my supervisor. She doesn't question me because I look like a ghost wandering the halls of a Victorian estate. The drive to the corner store on the edge of Silver Spoon Falls is a blur of rural scenery and internal static. I turn up the air conditioning to full and let it blast against my face to keep the nausea at bay. Every mile I drive feels like I'm moving toward a cliff I can't avoid.
Inside the store, the air-conditioning is set to a frigid level, making me shiver as I navigate the aisles. I head straight for the medication section, my hand trembling as I reach for the box with the most expensive, digital promise of certainty. I don't want a faint blue line I have to squint at; I want a word. A clear, undeniable declaration of my fate. I pay for it with a stony expression, the plastic box tucked into my bag like a ticking bomb.
I rush over to my apartment to take the test. I fumble my keys so hard I nearly drop the test on the stairs. By the time I get inside, I’m shaking. Dizzy. I want to breathe, but I can’t get air past the taste still lingering in my throat.
I lock the door. Tear the box open with shaking hands. I read the instructions three times just to be sure. Then I take the test and lay it on the bathroom counter.
There’s a stupid digital hourglass blinking at me from the tiny window. Three minutes. An eternity.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees, face in my hands. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I can’t handle this alone. Not now. Not with the room tilting on its axis and my entire life possibly changing.
I look at the time and realize Hudson’s plane should be landing at any moment. Not wanting to worry him, I pull out my phone and text him.
Me
I ran back to my apartment to grab a few things. I won’t be long.
The response is damn near immediate. I picture him in an airport lounge, suit jacket off, eyes on his phone, but jaw set like always.
Hudson
I’ll be there in an hour or so. Is everything okay?
Okay is a relative term. I look at the test and it says “Pregnant.” No squinting, no hesitation. Just black letters, sharp as a knife. The world stops. Then flips over and starts again.
Another message from Hudson comes through.
Hudson
Are you okay????
