Page 93 of One Reckless Night

36

AMELIA

Iwas sitting on my couch, a plate of pasta balanced on my lap and a stack of lab notes spread out on the coffee table. I twirled a forkful of noodles, my mind half on the notes and half on the day’s events. The baby bump was starting to show now, and I couldn’t help but glance down at it every so often, still adjusting to the reality of it all. My tank top clung to my curves, and my pajama pants were loose and comfortable—exactly what I needed after a long day.

I wasn’t really trying to hide the pregnancy, but I also wasn’t trying to show it off. I knew there were still plenty of people gossiping about me behind my back. They all wanted to know who my baby’s father was.

I wasn’t telling them a damn thing. Let them gossip and speculate. I couldn’t care less what they thought about me. Soon, I would be gone. Then they could choke on their gossip for all I cared.

At least, I hoped I would be gone soon. I had to admit I wasn’t trying all that hard to find another job. I knew I had to leave, but it was so hard to walk away from the job I loved.

I took another unladylike bite of pasta, slurping it into my mouth with zero shame. Thank God no one could see me eating. My grandmother would be having an absolute panic attack if she was looking down from eternity.

I went for another massive bite when there was a knock at the door.

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. Who would be here at this hour? I wasn’t expecting anyone. It had to be Clair. Setting the plate down, I pushed myself off the couch and padded to the door, peeking through the peephole expecting to find her standing there with a pint of ice cream. That had become our thing.

But it wasn’t her. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at him.

Jared.

The father of my child was standing on my porch, a file tucked under his arm, his expression blank. Like he was a door-to-door salesman. I didn’t see happiness or irritation. Or excitement. He just stood there.

For a moment, I considered not answering. I wasn’t ready for this—for him. But something made me turn the knob and open the door.

“Jared,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “What are you doing here?”

He looked as uncomfortable as I felt in that moment. Like he wasn’t sure he should be here either. “Hey, Amelia. I, uh… I was hoping you could take a look at something for me.” He held up the file, as if that explained everything.

I hesitated, then stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room. I realized this was the first time he’d ever been in my condo. It felt strange, having him here, so close. My body reacted in ways I wished it wouldn’t. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious about the tank top and the bump that was impossible to miss. Then I remembered my pasta dinner and how I was eating. I quickly wiped my face with the back of my hand, praying there wasn’t any sauce lingering.

“Nice place,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, closing the door behind him. “It’s home.”

He nodded, still looking around. I gestured to the couch. “Have a seat. Do you want something to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, I’m good,” he said, sitting down. He set the file on the coffee table, his eyes flicking to my half-eaten plate of pasta. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

“It’s fine,” I said, picking up the plate. “Are you hungry? I can fix you a plate.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s just pasta,” I said, heading to the kitchen. “Nothing fancy.”

I dished up a plate for him. My hands trembled slightly as I scooped the noodles onto the plate. I covered it with a ladle filled with the jarred alfredo sauce, a little embarrassed by my meager fare. I carried it back to the living room and set it in front of him, then sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

“Thanks,” he said, picking up the fork. He took a bite. I couldn’t help but notice how quickly he ate. Like he hadn’t tasted a carb in years. I smirked to myself, but the smile faded as I reached for the file.

“What’s this?” I asked, flipping it open.

“A patient,” he said between bites. “Late forties, benign brain tumor. I was going to perform surgery, but his symptoms don’t align with the tumor’s location. I’m not sure surgery’s the right call.”

I scanned the notes, my brow furrowing as I read. “Has he been evaluated for dementia?”

Jared shook his head. “No. I was focused on the tumor, but now I’m not so sure. I met with him and his wife today and things felt off.”