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She swings the door open in front of me, and I say my thanks as I step inside. Ben steps in too, and Heidi and Harrison are already in there.
Thank God.
Heidi jerks her chin to Ben to step back outside and follows him down the hall to some other, undisclosed location. I honestly couldn’t give two shits where they’re going. All I care about is that I’m finally here, at my appointment, and Harrison is here too.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind Heidi and Ben. Harrison smiles and shakes his head.
“Don’t be. I’m excited to be here.”
“Still? How is that humanly possible at this point? Haven’t you, like, fused to the furniture? Grown roots? Started to foam at the mouth?”
He laughs. “I’m excited because I get to see our baby. And I’m happy to report I’ve somehow managed to escape all of those doomsday scenarios.”
I grin. Yeah. Seeing your unborn child for the first time is a pretty good reason to hold back from starting a mutiny, I guess.
“Still. I’m really sorry you had to sit around here all day.”
“No big deal.” He shrugs as he takes my hand and helps me climb up to sit on the exam table. “It was basically like being in a cubicle. I worked all day, and the nurses took good care of me.”
I work hard not to let my face show how hard that last part makes me cringe. I just bet they did. All rugged, scruffy jaw and bottomless green eyes, Harrison is a one-man lady trap. I’m fairly certain he’d be immensely successful if he decided he wanted to start a business venture in kidnapping. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t suggest it, given the repercussions both physically and morally, but all the ladies would climb inside his van.
So, I can only freaking imagine all the things the nurses offered to procure for him throughout the day.
“Oh.” It’s the only word I can manage, if it can even be counted as a word. Surely, Scrabble wouldn’t let Oh get by with actual points.
Harrison flashes a sexy little smirk that I silently—and probably irrationally, too—hope none of those nurses was privy to. “Don’t worry, Rock. They didn’t, like, give me a sponge bath or anything.”
“Am I that obvious?” I frown dramatically. For God’s sake, I’m an actress. Has my training taught me nothing about the art of playing some shit close to the vest?
“It’s cute,” he says with a laugh. “If I thought it was anything more than pregnancy hormones, I might hang out here every day.”
I blush. Sweet Jesus, the man can flirt. He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Just like how breathing or sweating through the armpits of every outfit I wear is to me—it just comes naturally.
I don’t even get the chance to open my mouth before a knock sounds on the door.
I rub my fingers together nervously and call out for the doctor to come in.
The door sweeps in and shuts behind her so quickly, you might miss it being opened if you blinked. I’d imagine it’s an exercise in privacy protocol, but I’m way too tired to give it any more thought than that.
It’s weird—thinking of the father of your child as a stranger. It’s not something I ever even considered when I was building fantasies as a young girl. I was much more traditional—straightforward. After all, I spent my childhood making movies.
Obviously, I envisioned a momentous meet-cute, a romantic but eventful pursuit, and eventually, a whole formal proposal.
I wanted the knee, the ring, the flowers—all of it.
Then, after a respectable amount of time spent suffering through boisterous Thanksgivings with both of our families giving us the third degree about babies, we’d finally be ready.
I’d get pregnant—probably with an unexpected set of twins—but all in all, our lives would be going according to plan. My husband would hold my hand as we listened to the magic of our baby’s first heartbeat, and—
“Dr. Simpson,” my doctor says, holding out a hand to Harrison. He takes it firmly with a smile. I honestly still can’t get over how calm he’s been every single day since showing up. It’s not like he was expecting to become a father, and yet, he seems unflappable.
Holding my hair back while I puked up all manner of food carcasses within an hour of paying a million dollars to see me? No big deal.
Getting choked out by my security team? Takes it with a smile.
Left for dead in the obstetrics desert? Unfazed.
He is the triathlon runner of Hollywood pregnancy scandal.
“Harrison Hughes.”
“Am I right to assume you’re the father?” Dr. Simpson asks carefully, and Harrison nods.
“That’s me.”
“How’s the morning sickness coming along, Raquel? Still feeling sick every day?”
I laugh at the understatement of the year, and the doctor jerks her attention over to me. I try to straighten my face into something less mocking. “Um, yeah. Still sick. Usually at very inopportune times.”
