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I’ve done crazy stuff. Broken into multimillion dollar corporations. Snuck into people’s homes to plant cameras. Run from guard dogs. Stolen cars while people loaded the trunk with contraband. Dodged gun-toting maniacs. Taken a bullet at close range. Looked death in the eye.
But nothing has ever felt so damned scary as the two little words I need to say.
Gah!
I’m suddenly mute and sweating cold, angry bullets.
Scotch cradles my face in his big hands and kills me with the worry in his words. “Honey. You’re scaring the fuck out of me, right now. Did something bad show up on the tests?”
I nod. Then I shake my head. Then I do that weird thing that some people do that’s both a yes and no at the same time. Some kind of bobblehead mashup.
Then I burst into tears.
God! Is this what being pregnant is going to feel like? I’m not okay with this.
Those dark brows of Scotch’s fall into a serious line as he holds me. “Just tell me. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”
I open my mouth, but have to clear my throat. As my heart pounds, he says, “It’s okay. It’s okay, whatever it is.”
Yeah, well, that might be about to change.
I cannot say those two words…
“I’m sorry. I just got… claustrophobic. This whole thing is making me crazy.” That and finding out I have a little human growing inside of me. Lord. Help. Me.
And Scotch is having none of it. “What are you not telling me?”
I open my mouth a few times. But can’t get it out. So, I do the best that I can. My voice comes out all shaky and weird. “Remember the implant I had in my arm?”
That frown of his grows harder. I slide my sleeve off my shoulder. There’s a tiny round bandage over the hole where the birth-control implant used to be.
“What the hell?”
Nervously, I say, “I cut it out.”
He’s baffled. His eyes go wide, then hard. “You’re certifiable. I mean, I could have taken it out. But what the hell did you do that for?”
“It failed.”
Silence drops like a bomb between us.
That old saying about seeing someone’s cogs turning… well, I’m watching it happen first hand.
He’s going to short out that big brain of his.
“I’m p-p-pregnant.”
For thirty seconds, I think I might faint again, from sheer gut-twisting, vein-popping anticipation.
“Say something,” I blurt.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. With every damned emotion a man can have in his dark brown irises.
He lifts a hand to my face again. Cups my jaw with his calloused fingers. “Don’t ever, ever, be afraid to talk to me again. Promise me?”
I nod. Even though promising this to him is almost as scary as telling him I was pregnant just now.
And when I think I’m about to snap into a million pieces, he whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”
