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“Quinn, look at me.”
She refuses.
Before I can argue, a bloke walks in wheeling some sort of machine.
“My name is Eric, and I’ll be giving you the transvaginal ultrasound to make sure everything’s okay with baby.”
Ultra-what? Quinn’s eyes dart to mine, full of fear. She swallows hard. Her eyes are still locked on mine when she answers him with a barely audible, “Okay.”
“You’re…is it…?”
She nods weakly. A baby? She’s having a baby? We’re having a baby? The ultrasound tech must realize he’s walked in on a very uncomfortable situation, because he mumbles some excuse about forgetting gel and bails.
“I’m sorry,” she starts. I think I’m in shock. A baby. I’m going to be a father.
“I don’t blame you for hating me. I mean, I hate me right now. I was going to the pharmacy the day that Murray found me, and then with everything else, it slipped my mind. God, it must look like I’m trying to trap you. I know you’re done with me. I won’t ask you for anything, I swear.”
“Quinn?” I ask exasperatedly.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the feck up.”
Her big, blue eyes widen as I gather her small body in my arms. Inside, I’m losing my shite. I don’t know the first thing about being a da. But, I can’t deny the sliver of excitement I feel at creating a life with Quinn, of being bonded to her forever.
“I know you didn’t do this on purpose. I know you’re not trying to trap me. And you need to know something.”
“What’s that?” she whispers.
“I’m not going anywhere. You won’t be getting rid of me. We match, remember? I want you. I want both of you.” And I do. They’re mine, even if I am scared shitless. Quinn shakes her head, about to argue. She doesn’t look convinced, but I’ll spend every damn day proving myself worthy.
The tech walks back in, and we find out that she’s six weeks and four days along, and I see a little peanut with a heart rate of one hundred and thirty beats per minute.
This is happening, ready or not.
I wake up to the scent of eggs. An omelet or scrambled. Whatever it is—it makes me want to throw up in my mouth. I stand up on my feet too quickly and too fast and feel the room spin around me.
Well, shit.
Dropping right back to the bed like a sack of potatoes, I look around me, examining the room. I’m no longer at the hospital. Carter took me home last night and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said that I’d be staying at his place until while we figure things out. I was too weak to argue. I won’t stay with him just because he feels like it’s the right thing to do. Despite everything he does for a living, I genuinely believe that Carter has a good heart. I also think this baby represents some kind of atonement, a second chance if you will. Carter doesn’t think he is capable of goodness, but he doesn’t see all the things that I see in him. He’s fiercely loyal, protective of those he loves, and has the patience of a godd
amn saint. Those are pretty good qualities to possess as a father, if you ask me.
When the doctor informed me that I was pregnant, my first reaction was full-blown panic. Panic for my unborn child, panic anticipating Carter’s reaction. But during the ultrasound, when the doctor was looking for the heartbeat, I felt panic for a whole different reason. I panicked at the thought of something happening to this baby, at the thought of it being taken away from me. That’s when I knew. It may have not been planned, but I’d do anything to keep this baby safe.
My head lands back on the pillow, and I hear the heavy footsteps of Carter’s combat boots. Everything in his room is clean and airy. The central heat is on, and it’s nice and cozy. In fact, it’s a little too warm. And the smell of eggs is killing me.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, clutching the top of the doorframe with his hands. It makes his short, plain T-shirt ride up and expose his sick six-pack. His arms are way too muscular in that shirt. Is he flexing, or is this just his body’s natural reaction to hugging the doorframe?
God, being pregnant makes you horny. Or maybe it’s just Carter.
“I’m fine, just the eggs. The smell makes me want to throw up, but I’m too weak to make my way to the bathroom.”
Never mind the fact that I don’t even know where his bathroom is. I’ve been on this bed since I got here. Which reminds me—my bladder is about to burst. Carter tilts his head sideways. He is looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. He’s no longer in lust with me. He is no longer intrigued or aroused. The fire I kindled in him has disappeared. And what I’m left with—and this I can see leaking from his stormy ocean eyes—is concern and perhaps a little pity.
Yet again, I have reduced myself to that. The victim. The weak, little woman.
“I’ll help you to the loo. Let me just toss the omelet to the bin. It was for you, anyway.” And now, I feel like crying. Hormones are a bitch.
