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Which doesn’t sound particularly romantic, I know, but my release from his company is accompanied by a monthly stipend of alotmore than what I was making as a customer service rep. It also includes a sizable pension and comes with legal documents ensuring I will receive my stipend for the rest of my life, regardless of my association with Adam. He’s really gone out of his way to show me my financial stability won’t be dependent on when, or even if, I decide to become his mate. In alpha terms, that’s about as romantic as it gets.
I’m so swept up in the bliss of falling for my billionaire suitor I only realize my period is late as I hover over the ensuite toilet on the morning of January seventh, retching up every ounce of bile in my system.
I go through the motions of wondering if I ate something dodgy the night before, or perhaps I picked up a stomach bug on our latest trip to the theater. Then, almost subconsciously, I mentally calculate when I last had my period.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Buthow?
The only time I’ve had full, unprotected sex was when Adam broke into my house on Christmas Eve. And he gave me Plan B right after.
Are the damn things not 100% effective?
I rest my head in my hands as I try to swallow the remaining nausea. I guess no birth control method is.
Okay, no need to panic just yet. It could still just be a case of dodgy clams.
After several long, deep breaths, I manage to get it together enough to peel myself off the toilet. I swish around some mouthwash, splash fresh water on my face, get dressed, and head to the front door. Adam’s working this morning, and as much as part of me would love not being alone with the gnawing panic in my stomach, it’s probably for the best that I don’t have his overprotective ass hovering over me right now. Sometimes a girl needs to melt down in private.
But as I open the front door to head out to the nearest pharmacy, I’m met by a big, burly bodyguard outside.
“Ma’am?” he asks. I don’t miss how he takes a half-step, his body blocking my exit path.
“I need to go out,” I say, tone sharp.
He doesn’t move. “Sorry, ma’am, I have orders to keep you safe inside the apartment until Mr. McCain returns.”
I blink. Several times. “Excuse me? You have orders to keep meimprisoned?”
Okay, so as far as prisons go, Adam’s penthouse is pretty luxe, and I’m mostly using the term "imprisoned" to highlight the ridiculousness of this muscle-for-hire trying to keep a grown woman from leaving when she damn well pleases.
Unfortunately for me, the bodyguard’s face remains entirely blank. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t disobey orders."
My mouth falls open in disbelief. He’s serious. He’s not going to let me out.
Scowling at my impromptu jailor, I reach for my phone to call Adam and either break up with him or just scream—I’ve not entirely decided which yet—when the memory of why I was trying to leave in the first place sets in.
My fingers falter, letting my phone drop back into my purse. I don’t want to talk to him before I know if…
…if my life’s about to change even more dramatically than it did Christmas Eve.
“I need something from the pharmacy. Before Adam—Mr. McCain—comes home.” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “And just FYI—keeping me here against my will is illegal.”
“I have orders to ensure you get whatever you need,” Mr. Bodyguard says, ignoring my thinly veiled threat of legal action. “If you tell me what it is, I’ll send someone to fetch it.”
I hesitate for a long moment, but my options are seemingly rather limited. Finally, I tell him, “I need a pregnancy test. And some salty crackers, while you’re at it.”
If the news that I might be carrying McCain Junior startles the bodyguard, he doesn’t show it. “All right, I’ll have that to you in twenty minutes. If there is nothing else you require, please step back inside, ma’am.”
I give him a tight-lipped glare, forcefully holding myself back from thanking him, and return to my gilded cage.
No doubt the bodyguard’s orders are a result of Adam’s tightly wound alpha instincts needing to know I’m safe at all times. I’m still going to absolutely murder him when he returns.
Unless it turns out I’m pregnant.
Then I’m going to have a panic attack.
