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She nodded, because she didn’t quite trust herself to speak.
“History repeating itself, huh?” he asked softly.
“Mom told you?”
“No. I figured it out on my own. The first time he came over to the house for dinner, the lightbulb went off.”
She rushed to explain. “He never knew…before. I don’t want you to judge him. I didn’t tell him until just recently.”
“I got that, too. Nobody’s that good an actor. He didn’t have a clue. Don’t worry, Sinclair. I’m not going to reach for my shotgun over something that happened a decade ago. Let’s focus on what’s happening now. When are you going to tell him the results are positive?”
She let her gaze drop to the table and traced the worn edge with her fingertip. “I don’t know. I thought I would confirm things with the doctor first. Even if I am pregnant, it might not be…um…sustainable.”
Her dad stilled her restless hand with his. “He doesn’t know?”
“Uh-uh.”
He nudged his chair back from the table and aimed a stern gaze at her. “He’s not an eighteen-year-old kid this time around, Sinclair. He doesn’t need protecting, and he deserves to know what’s happening. You both have a stake in this, no matter how it plays out.”
“You’re right.” She rubbed her chest, where an ache centered. “You’re right. I need to tell him.”
“You do.” Her father stood, and she followed suit. “After you talk, if you need me to get my shotgun…” He walked to the door.
“Dad,” she hugged him hard—extra hard, for courage—and then stepped away. “You don’t even own a shotgun.”
He opened the door and stepped out before turning to face her again. Sunlight danced in his eyes, and something else. “Beau didn’t know that. Shane doesn’t have to know, either.”
She smiled, despite everything, and hugged him again. “Give one of those to Mom.”
“Will do, kiddo.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. And then he was gone.
No sooner had she shut the door than her stomach suddenly clenched. OJ. Not good. She ran to the kitchen sink to rid her system of eight ounces of Florida’s finest, and then washed out her mouth with several handfuls of cold water. Afterward, she drenched a dishtowel, draped it across her forehead, and slumped in a chair at the kitchen table.
Oh, God. Her whole body begged to go back upstairs, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. She really couldn’t do this. Not again.
Enough. A firm voice in her head spoke up. That weak-assed crap has to stop. You’re a grown woman. You are strong, and you don’t really have a choice. Maybe you didn’t see this detour coming, but you’re on it. Break the journey down into steps and take the fucking walk.
Step one. Breath.
She did. Slow and deep, until her pulse settled.
Step two. Call the gynecologist and make an appointment.
Right. She got up and tossed the towel into the sink. Her phone peeked out from the mouth of the purse she’d dumped on the kitchen counter on her way earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago. While she waited for the receptionist to pick up—and immediately ask her to hold—she kept her hands busy riffling through the two days’ worth of mail she’d left beside her purse. A FedEx letter caught her attention. She pulled it from the pile, frowning as she noted the return address. What in the world was her landlord sending?
The receptionist came on the line. She concentrated on scheduling an appointment, relieved the doctor could squeeze her in tomorrow morning for a blood test. After she hung up, she held her phone uncertainly. Should she call Shane? Maybe she’d catch him during a break from his meeting?
No. With all due respect to her father, she didn’t know anything yet—nothing to justify hijacking his world in the middle of a busy morning.
Welcome to step three. Wait.
Waiting sucked. She tossed her phone into the purse and turned her attention to the mail again—anything for a distraction—and picked up the FedEx envelope. A pull of the ripcord, a tip of her hand, and a fat envelope embossed with the Pinkerton Family Trust return address fell out.
A bad feeling squeezed her stomach, more nerves than nausea this time. She tore the envelope open and unfolded a typed letter backed by…a copy of her land lease, with a red flag stuck to one of the pages. Weird. Had they missed a signature two years ago when they’d completed the paperwork? She skimmed the cover letter.
For violation of paragraph 10(b) of the Lease, pursuant paragraph 21 thereof, Lessor hereby furnishes Lessee with thirty (30) days’ notice to vacate the Property.
What the fuck?
