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“I know, Pop,” B.J. muttered in absolute mortification. But, hell. It had been years since she’d gotten any lectures on sex from her father. He’d never had any prejudices about her being female. He’d line her up with her brothers and give her the same exact speech on safe sex he gave the boys.
“I know,” she repeated quietly and closed her eyes. “I just. . .this was different.”
He made a sound that said he’d heard that line before and didn’t buy it. “Was it that Smardo boy then?”
“What?!” B.J. burst out. Her eyes flew open, and she whipped her head up to stare at him in horror. “God, no. What in the world made you think—”
The facts struck her, and her mouth dropped open. Feeling her face heat, she glanced away and wiped at her mouth. “Guess you heard about that little scene with him in the diner yesterday morning, huh?”
“Guess I did,” Jeb answered.
She could feel him trying to crawl into her brain and figure out who might be responsible for a possible pregnancy, but B.J. wasn’t
about to tell him anything. Not yet. She wanted to make sure it was true first.
“If it wasn’t Smardo, then who’re we talking about here?”
B.J. refused to speak. She refused to even think of the person they were talking about. Not yet. . .not until she had all the facts. She’d already caused Grady Rawlings to suffer enough in the past month. She wasn’t going to throw his name around until she was certain. And probably not even then.
“Well, then. . .tell me or don’t tell me. It don’t matter none,” Jeb said with suddenly tired-looking eyes. “You still got a situation here to deal with. So, I’d say you best get yourself checked out and see if there’s a bun in there or not.”
Chapter Eight
Two days later, B.J. sat in the doctor’s office, numb and dazed. The twenty-seven-year-old tomboy of Tommy Creek, Texas was pregnant.
“I’m going to give you a list of over-the-counter prenatal vitamins,” Dr. Carl told her. He was the only gynecologist for a hundred miles, so B.J. had scheduled an appointment with him. Now she wished she’d just taken one of those home pregnancy things, because hearing a professional’s word on the subject made this feel way too real and unavoidable.
“What I want you to do is choose one brand and start taking it immediately. Your body needs all sorts of nutrients it didn’t before, and your remaining healthy is of the upmost importance. Now, don’t forget to schedule an appointment with Lara at the front desk for next month before you leave. And here’s a couple pamphlets you need to read through.”
Too stunned to argue with the man, B.J. nodded, slipped the pile of papers from his hand with limp fingers, and walked like a zombie toward the secretary’s desk.
Dr. Carl’s receptionist, Lara Alberts, was a middle-aged woman who liked to stick her long nose in other people’s business. When B.J. approached her, she stumbled a step, realizing Lara was going to discover her condition. Shit.
“Well, hey there, B.J.,” Lara greeted. “I didn’t realize it was time for your yearly already. I thought you visited more around the end of the. . .” Her words died off as she opened B.J.’s file and read the reason for her visit. “Oh my!” she gasped and raised wide, curious eyes. “You’re. . .you’re. . .” Her gaze fell to B.J.’s stomach.
“I’m ready to check out,” B.J. growled, glowering as she plopped her checkbook on the counter. “What’s the co-pay?”
Lara fumbled for a minute, glancing at her with wide, curious eyes every few seconds as she looked up the amount.
Yes, it’s a goddamned supernatural phenomenon. Someone knocked up B.J. Gilmore. What a freaking wonder. The world must be coming to an end.
But B.J. kept her trap shut and settled for a healthy glare. Lara, thank God, didn’t pry for more details, though she did try to talk about the weather as they hashed out a date for B.J.’s next appointment. Not in the mood for any kind of chitchat, B.J. merely booked it out of there as soon at Lara handed her a card bearing the date of her check up.
She walked to her truck in a trance.
Pregnant.
It didn’t seem real. What in the hell was she going to do with a baby? It was like Santa Claus moving to the Bahamas, Nashville turning rock and roll, the White House hosting the worldwide mud wrestling competition. It just didn’t happen.
B.J. didn’t know anything about kids. She’d been one a long time ago, but that had sucked, end of story. She saw her brother’s daughter every couple of weeks, but his girl was the spitting image of her mother, begging and whining all the time until her parents gave her what she wanted.
Shuddering in horror, B.J. hoped like hell she didn’t have a kid like Buck’s brat. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the steering wheel, trying to picture a little brown-eyed girl with her hair and Grady’s—
An image of Grady flashed through her mind.
Grady. Oh, God. Grady.
Remembering him, she sat up straight, her eyes flying wide open. “Holy shit.”
