Page 57

When the door clicks shut, her head snaps up. For a split second, I catch the raw, unfiltered disappointment in her eyes before she realizes it's me. Seeing it feels like taking a blunt-force hit to the ribs. She thought I wasn't coming. She thought I was going to be just another guy who didn't show up for her, and knowing she expected it wakes up a dark, violent beast in my blood that wants to hunt down whoever taught her that and make them hurt the way they hurt her.

But she recovers fast. The relief vanishes, replaced by a slow, sweeping look. Her eyes drag from the patches on my shoulders down the length of my flight suit, snagging on the metal zipper that’s halfway down my chest, exposing the black tank top I’ve got on underneath, before coming back up to my face. The sheer, suffocating gravity that lives in the space between us reaches out and wraps its hands right around my throat.

"You made it," she says, crossing her arms under her chest. It pushes her tits up, making them almost spill out, and it takes everything in me not to stare… or drool.

"I told you I wasn't missing this," I say, stepping deeper into the room. "The briefing ran long, and traffic was a parking lot. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She clears her throat, looking away and adjusting her glasses. "You look very Top Gun."

I smirk, leaning my shoulder against the wall next to the biohazard bin. "I fly a ninety-thousand-pound turboprop, Goldie. Not fighter jets."

"It's the same difference. You're wearing a jumpsuit."

"It's a flight suit."

"Whatever you say, Maverick."

Before I can fire back, the door opens again. A woman in a white coat walks in holding a digital tablet. She takes one look at the two of us, her eyes darting from Goldie's neon dress to my government-issue blue, and a warm smile spreads across her face.

"Ah, good," the doctor says, tapping the screen. "Dad made it."

Pride punches the breath right out of my lungs. Dad. Hearing a stranger acknowledge it is a bit of a mindfuck, not gonna lie. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, and it’s more emotional than I thought it’d be. I glance over at Goldie to see what her reaction is, but she doesn't say a damn thing. She doesn't explain our backwards arrangement or point out that we barely know each other. She just bites her bottom lip, a faint pink flush creeping up her neck.

I just nod. "That’s me."

"Excellent." The doctor pulls up a rolling stool and sits down. "So, Goldie, your bloodwork came back from the lab this morning. Your hCG levels are right where we want them to be, and your progesterone looks great. Since we date pregnancies from the start of your last cycle, that puts you at roughly five weeks along."

A deep, grounding relief settles in my chest. I spent the last year drowning in quiet guilt, tearing myself apart and wondering if my body was the reason my wife wasn't getting pregnant. Now I know my body wasn't broken at all. Holy shit, we did this on the first try.

"So what happens now?" Goldie asks, her voice a little shaky.

I close the distance between us, stepping right up to the edge of the exam table. I cover her hand where she's gripping the paper. Her fingers are cold, but she turns her palm up and laces our fingers together, holding on tight.

"Now, you keep taking your prenatals," the doctor says, smiling at our joined hands before handing Goldie a printed packet of paper. "Eat when you're hungry, stay hydrated, and we’ll see you back here in about a month for your first ultrasound."

Ten minutes later, we walk out the front doors and back into the sweltering heat. The sun is beating down on the asphalt, turning the parking lot into an oven.

Goldie stops next to her car, clutching the packet of papers against her chest. She looks a little dazed. "Well. I guess that makes it official."

I look down at her. I don't want to go back to Tampa. I don't want to get in my truck and drive away. We agreed to be friends, but the thought of leaving her right now feels like tearing a layer of my own skin off. It's physically wrong.

"You need to eat," I tell her.

She squints up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Are you telling me or asking me?"

"I'm telling you there's a food truck parked down by the beach that makes the best carnitas in St. Pete," I say, keeping my tone casual so she doesn't throw her walls up. "Let's go grab food.”

She opens her mouth to argue, so I rush out, “It isn't a date. We just have some shit to figure out, and you need protein."

She eyes me, clearly trying to find the trap. But the mention of tacos wins out. "Fine. But I'm driving my own car."

"I’d expect nothing less."

We end up sitting side by side on a weathered wooden bench facing the Gulf. The food truck was packed, but we managed to snag two Styrofoam containers of tacos and a couple of cold sodas. The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, turning the sky a bruised shade of orange and purple. The smell of salt water and grilled meat hangs in the humid air.

"So," I say, wiping grease off my fingers with a paper napkin. "Colston says if it's a girl, we have to name her Jenny."

Goldie chokes on her taco. She hits her chest, coughing, and glares at me with watering eyes. "Yeah, that’s not happening."