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I nodded. “I can handle that.” I was nine weeks right now. Thirty-six weeks was a ways off.
“I have faith in you, Missy.” She turned to the computer and typed away for a few seconds. “And if you need someone to talk to, call me, Missy.”
“Call you?” I asked.
She glanced at me. “Yes. I normally don’t tell my patients to call me, but I can tell you need someone in your life who isn’t so much in your life.” She grabbed a sticky note and stuck it to the papers that had spit out of the printer. “No matter the time, I’ll be there.”
She stood and handed me the papers. “You’re not alone in this, Missy. I know it seems crazy right now, but I have a feeling things will find a way to work themselves out.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I grabbed the papers, and she slipped out the door.
And I abruptly burst into tears.
Pregnancy was a trip.
Chapter Eight
Charlie
“Shelby wants you to come over for dinner.”
I looked up from the stack of invoices in front of me. “Why?”
Wilder chuckled. “To eat something other than fried chicken and biscuits.”
“I can’t tell you the last time I had fried chicken,” I laughed. “Being around it all day since I was born made me not interested in eating it rarely, if ever.”
“Seriously?” Wilder asked. “I think I eat at least three pieces a day when I’m here.” Wilder rubbed his stomach. “I’ve had to up working out four times a week instead of two just so I don’t get a chicken gut.”
“That like a beer belly?” I asked.
“Exactly. Come over for dinner tonight. If you don’t, I won’t hear the end of it from Shelby. You’ll be doing me a favor if you come.”
“What time?” I asked. It wouldn’t hurt to have dinner with Shelby and Wilder.
“Six.”
I glanced at the clock. “You do know that it’s five-thirty, right?”
Wilder smiled. “I most certainly do. Come on. You’ve got more than enough coverage here. Take a break from the chicken madness, and just have a peaceful night with Shelby and me.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. I had planned on finishing up with the invoices and going home anyway. I would just go to Wilder’s for dinner and then make my way home.
It had been three weeks since the reopening of Chicken Biscuit, and I had been running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
Fitting since I owned a fried chicken restaurant.
“Shelby’s house.”
I nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Thirty minutes later, I pulled up to Shelby’s house and killed the engine.
Headlights flashed behind me, and a car parked behind me.
I hopped out and was surprised to see Blake.
“You get summoned for dinner, too?” he called.
