by Dianne Drake
Conor could be so nosy. She shuffled her body up the wall until she stood upright, not quite ramrod straight, and eyeballed him. ‘Having a wee kip on the way to get those drinks.’
‘You think you should be at work? You’re not exactly on form today.’
‘Have I made any mistakes? Looked incapable of doing my job?’
‘Not yet.’ Conor studied her for a long moment. No heated connection going on now. ‘Take thirty. Get something to eat to go with that coffee.’ Her face must’ve given her away because his hand went up, palm out. ‘No argument.’
When he took her arm and led her into the tiny space that was the staff kitchenette she had no choice other than to go with him. Putting up a fight was a waste of time and energy that was best saved for other more important issues.
‘Here.’ Conor removed a brown paper bag from a cupboard and placed it on the bench. ‘Cheese scone from the café. Get it down you.’ Then he reached for the coffee.
A warning rose from her tense gut. No way. Food would have to wait. ‘Th-thanks. Tea for me.’ And this was the woman who had taken control of her life and refused to let anyone or anything tip her off track again? Tamara reached for the bag, tore it open and broke off a tiny corner of the scone. Shut up, stomach. Whose side are you on, anyway? And she popped the morsel into her mouth and chewed. And chewed. Swallowed. Take that. She took another small bite, and locked eyes with Conor. ‘Just what I needed,’ she agreed around a wave of relief that her stomach was supporting her. However briefly. For now she was back on track.
‘I’ll hand that asthma over to one of the junior doctors, then we’ll take our drinks to my office and have that talk you asked for.’
‘What? Now?’ She tipped sideways, grabbed at the bench. ‘It can wait.’ I’m not ready.
‘Something’s up and it’s affecting you. Best we sort it and get on with the day. Finish making those drinks, will you?’ Conor shot out the door, leaving her shaking.
On autopilot she spooned coffee into one mug, dropped a tea bag into another, added sugar and boiling water to both. Stirred. It’s too late to do a runner. Time to face the facts.
‘Ready? Good.’ Conor swooped back into the small space, picked up both full mugs in one hand and took her elbow in the other. ‘Let’s go.’
And then they were there, Conor’s office door clicking shut behind her, and the air all hot and heavy. Tamara sank onto the closest chair, gripped her hands between her knees and stared at the floor. She should’ve dug into the back of her wardrobe and found something half-decent to wear for this, instead of looking like the frump she hid behind. But then he’d have known something was up.
She heard the mugs being placed on the desk, Conor’s chair being pulled out, his knee clicking as he sat down. She felt his eyes on her, his bewilderment boring into her. Her skin chilled, and the moisture evaporated from her mouth.
Slowly lifting her head, she nearly leapt up and ran. There was so much concern radiating out at her from across the desk it undermined all the lessons on men she’d learned from her ex. Could Conor care about her that much?
‘Start at the beginning.’ Conor’s soft voice flowed over her, tightening already tight muscles and jangling nerve endings.
There was no beginning. No ending. Only the facts. Her spine couldn’t straighten to ramrod straight. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. Her heart squeezed in on itself so hard pain shot out in all directions. ‘I’m pregnant.’
He rocked backwards in his chair, those beautiful eyes widening with disbelief. Or was it shock? She couldn’t read him clearly. Gone was the open-faced, cheerful, friendly man everyone adored.
Might as well go for broke, put it all out there. In a strangled whisper, she told him, ‘You’re the baby’s father.’
Then she waited for the axe to fall. And waited and waited. The silence was stifling. The walls came closer, squeezing the heavy air around her, suffocating her.
Say something, Conor.
Copyright © 2017 by Sue MacKay
ISBN-13: 9781488020551
Saved by Doctor Dreamy
Copyright © 2017 by Dianne Despain
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