Knocked Up

by Stacey Lynn

  “Cold?” Braxton eyes, his brows furrowing. “Hold on.”

  Before I can tell him I’m not cold, but remembering our beautiful, passionate night together, he’s back and draping a thick fleece blanket over me.

  The door closes, the trunk he’d opened thuds shut, and then he’s rushing around the back of the car. I barely have the energy to pay attention as he easily slides into the seat and starts his car.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry about this. About all of it.”

  The whole pregnancy part, showing up at his tattoo shop, sleeping with him in the first place. All of it is so far outside my normal operating procedure it’s taken me over a month to find the courage to tell him.

  And he still hasn’t said anything.

  The palm of his hand taps the steering wheel repeatedly. “Let’s just get you checked out to make sure you’re okay. Then we’ll talk about what comes next.”

  “I’m keeping the baby.” He sounds like he wants to discuss options. Getting rid of my baby is not one of them. It was never an option I considered.

  My eyelids grow heavy. I’m so damn tired. All the time. I barely have the energy to pick up a paintbrush these days, much less stand on my feet for hours at my shifts at the gallery. But I swear, right before I drift off, I hear him breathe out a sigh of relief and say, “Good. I’m glad.”

  I wake again when Braxton’s arms are beneath my knees and behind my back. “Hey,” he says, almost sounding shocked I’m not sleeping. He lifts me out of his car and my hands that have somehow found their way to his shoulders push against him.

  “I can walk.”

  “Let’s not risk it today.”

  I struggle against his hold and give up. The man’s built like a mountain and I’ve seen his strength in action, when he pinned me against a wall, dropped to his knees, and threw my legs over his shoulders.

  My body warms, despite the chill in the air.

  Braxton strolls into the emergency room like he doesn’t have a hundred and thirty pounds in his arms, and my cheeks burn as heads turn in our direction. He ignores them, sauntering right up to the front desk.

  “May I help you?” The woman behind the counter glances at us with little change in her expression. It must not be the first time she’s seen a woman carried into the ER like a bride.

  “She needs to be seen,” Braxton says, before I can answer. “She’s pregnant and has fainted twice in the last half hour and she’s puking.”

  Her black eyes drift to me. “Name?”

  “Cara Thompson,” I whisper. My throat is dry and every tiny movement of Braxton’s arm makes me feel like I’m on a roller coaster. Tilting my head back, I meet his gaze. “Please put me down. I’d feel better on my feet.”

  Thick black brows pull together before he nods. He sets me on the floor gently, carefully, like I’m cracked porcelain and one jarring move could shatter me.

  I think I might, anyway.

  All of this is so, so horribly wrong.

  “Thank you.” I cling to the counter in front of us. I give the receptionist my midwife’s name and thankfully, Braxton brought me to Portland Regional where Pam has admitting privileges.

  With a few rapid clicks of her fingers on the keyboard, I answer a handful of questions and she gestures to the chair. “Have a seat. We’ll be with you soon.”

  A sweat breaks out along my forehead and I wipe it away. “Please,” I say, my voice hoarse. It hurts to talk. I push my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop what I know is about to happen.

  Not here. Not in the waiting room. Not in front of Braxton again.

  “I need a bowl.”

  The woman looks up. Whatever she says has her moving quickly and a kidney-shaped pale pink tub is thrust in front of me.

  Braxton’s hand goes to my side and he holds me to him as I bend forward, gagging.

  “Oh shit.” I moan, unable to help myself. This is the most miserable month of my life. Why women go through this willingly is beyond me at this point. Why they choose it multiple times is baffling.

  In the background, the woman’s fingers are still wildly typing on her keyboard and she pushes from her chair. “I’ve bumped you up in the queue. We’ll get you back to a room.”

  “Thank you,” Braxton says. “Appreciate it.”

  “Cara Thompson,” a new, male voice says and Braxton helps me turn toward the direction of double doors that have swung open. A young man in teal scrubs is standing there, eyes scanning the room, and stopping on me as Braxton helps us toward the door.

  “Thank you,” I mumble. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  His hand on my waist tenses. “Stop apologizing.”

  For a brief moment, I feel bad we’re getting moved to the back so quickly. The waiting room is full and more than one sickly-looking person scowls at me as we pass them. I push them out of my mind. This is the worst I’ve been and I’m barely able to move I’m so exhausted.

  Everything on my body hurts down to my bones like I’ve run a marathon without proper training.

  All I want to do is collapse into a bed and sleep for the next seven months, and if it has to be in a hospital room, I’m more than willing.

  * * *

  —

  They poke and prod me. Four attempts to get an IV into my arm left it looking like it’s been pummeled with a meat tenderizer.

  After hooking me up to various machines, a nurse came in and gave me antinausea meds along with nutrients through a second IV line. Strung to wires and tubes and monitors, I drift in and out of sleep for hours, the murmuring of a television in the background and Braxton’s occasional voice while he speaks on the phone filtering into my mind.

  It’s been hours since I went into a room and saw the doctor. Based on my weight loss and dehydration and constant vomiting, I’ve been diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum. It’s essentially morning sickness times a million and might last through my entire pregnancy. Not to mention, until I reach fourteen weeks, my risk of miscarrying is higher than average.

  As if I don’t have enough to worry about.

  It was this news that pushed tears from my eyes and down my cheeks. I’ve cried more in the last two months than I have since Jimmy died. Hormones aren’t only just a pain in the butt, but nothing has gone right for me since Jenna’s wedding.

  I’m moping, feeling sorry for myself, but it’s more than that. I’m also terrified out of my mind.

  I’ve been on my side, turned away from Braxton, despite his attempts to speak to me.

  I’ve never wanted to be a mom. Not really. It was always something I assumed I’d do. Go to college, then law school. Join my dad’s firm where I’d make partner by thirty. At some point along the way, I’d be introduced to a man my parents approved of and we’d marry, love playing second fiddle to respect and mutual goals, and once we were both settled in our careers, then I’d have a child or two because it was also expected.

  I don’t regret walking away from that life or my parents’ unreasonable expectations. Watching my brother die in my arms in a hospice facility changed me for the better, at least I hope it has.

  The fear of miscarrying is worrisome enough. Thinking about losing someone else I’ve fallen in love with before even seeing them sends me over the edge. I want to feel him or her move and see if it’s born with Jimmy’s eyes or mine, or the peach fuzz I had as a baby or Braxton’s inky black locks.

  I’m fully bonded to something the size of a lima bean.

  My vision turns blurry and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Behind me, Braxton sighs, as if he can see my shoulders shaking, or hear the cries I’m trying to keep quiet. I puked all over the man’s office and fainted in his arms. The last thing he needs is to have me bawling into his shoulder.

/>   “Cara.” Braxton calls my name.

  I shake my head and burrow my face into my pillow. The urge to tell him I’m fine screams at me, but I can’t.

  A chair squeaks, metal on linoleum, and soon he’s at the side of my bed, his hand on me, between my shoulders.

  His large, warm palm runs sweeping circles around my back. It reminds me of the day Jenna came to my apartment and helped me while I puked my guts out a month ago.

  He says nothing, and I’m thankful. I need the silence and space to think. His fingertips dig into my lower back, massaging me firmly, yet gently and slowly. It’s not sexual. But he’s strong, and it feels so good, muscles in my shoulders and neck relax as his thumbs press in around my spine.

  “Everything will work out.” His voice is deep, smoky and firm, as if he can will anything he wants into existence by a simple declaration.

  I’ve never had that kind of confidence. But it helps, and as my body relaxes, my tears evaporate.

  “Thank you.” I swipe away my tears and tuck my hands under my cheek. His hands are on my back. Turning to look at him would mean losing my massage and it’s the first comforting and soothing touch I’ve had in months.

  God, how pathetic.

  A one-night stand giving me a back rub is the most physical touch I’ve had other than Jenna’s hugs.

  “I talked to Jenna and Dan while you were sleeping.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “Dan has an event with Lane Holdings tonight.”

  “Right.” I helped Jenna search for a fancy dress weeks ago for this night. Dan works in their finance department and they’re having some spring fundraiser. I’d forgotten it was today. “Okay.”

  “I want you to spend the night with me.”

  My back tenses, my whole body jerks, and his hand stops massaging.

  “I meant to sleep, Cara.”

  “I knew that.”

  “I don’t want you going home and being alone after they let you out.”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “They’re not admitting you.”

  I know that, of course. The last time a nurse came in she said I would be staying for two more hours and having some more blood drawn, but I’ve been at the hospital for well over six hours getting filled with vitamins and rehydrated. I’m already feeling better, just tired and more mentally exhausted than physically.

  Actually, all the rest and lack of puking has left me feeling the best I’ve felt since the day before I took a pregnancy test. I don’t need someone else looking out for me.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Braxton’s hand falls from my back and the chair screeches as he moves it back. His body looms over the bed, the bed shifting as he puts his hands on it. I don’t even have to turn over to know he’s bent over and glaring at me.

  I open my eyes and peek anyway. “What?”

  “You’re not going home tonight and spending it alone.”

  I’ve never excelled at taking orders. “I believe it’s the twenty-first century and I can do whatever I want.”

  A corner of his lips lifts, turning into a smirk I’ve seen before. It was right before I told him I couldn’t go a third round after the first two mind-blowing orgasms.

  He’d tilted his head, smirked, and whispered, “Let’s see.” Then he’d attacked.

  My cheeks flush and heat travels down my spine that has nothing to do with the blanket or the room temperature.

  “Okay.” He pushes off the bed and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, sliding it to unlock and tapping on the screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Texting Stella to go buy food for you.”

  Confusion must be stamped on my features because he finishes the text and crosses his arms. “I’ve always liked it when you tell me I can’t do something. Makes me want to prove how wrong you are.”

  He remembers everything I just did, and if I wasn’t in a hospital with tubes shoved into me I’d punch him.

  Or slap him.

  Or grip his shirt and pull him to me.

  Freaking hormones.

  “I’m not going home with you.”

  “Okay.” He nods.

  He doesn’t mean a damn word of it. I can tell in the glimmer of his eyes and the set of his shoulders.

  And whatever. He wants to take me to his place, play babysitter, waste hours of unnecessary effort, he can go right on ahead.

  I roll over and put my back to him. “Fine.”

  “I also remember liking it, really liking it, when you gave in.”

  I’d call him a jerk, but he probably already knows it so I don’t bother.

  Instead, I spend the next hour pretending to sleep until a nurse comes in and tugs out my IVs and the doctor returns with my discharge papers. He also hands me a prescription for more antinausea medicine, as well as a diet plan for people with my condition. Rules on how often to eat, what to eat when, a mixture of carbs and protein and fats that is high in nutrients and easy to digest.

  Just looking at the list of foods makes me nauseous. Getting the medicine is definitely the top priority.

  Fortunately, Braxton must sense this as well, because he tugs the prescription from my fingertips, wraps his hand around my bicep and tugs me out the door. “Let’s go. We’ll get you something to drink and the medicine on our way to my place.”

  Chapter 4

  Braxton

  The urge to pull Cara into my arms and reassure her everything will be okay pulses beneath my skin, but I fight it back.

  Every damn time she starts to become vulnerable, she throws our night in my face. How am I supposed to care about someone when she makes it so damn apparent she despises the time we spent together?

  Shame, because while she regrets fucking me, besides her sudden change in opinion on that Sunday morning, Cara had been the best I could ever remember having. It wasn’t just physical, although that definitely surpassed any expectations I had when she first suggested we head to my room. Our connection went beyond physical. Beyond mental. Something happened when she was so close to me and even with my hand on her back, trying to comfort her, I still feel it.

  Which makes me the fool. If Cara showed one hint of wanting another go at me, I’d probably trip over my shoes in my hurry to kick them off and get us naked, even knowing she’d regret it afterward.

  The car ride to my building is relatively quiet other than the jazz music playing from my playlist and the infrequent protests Cara made early on.

  I shut her down with a firm scolding. “It’s my kid too and you might not be okay with this, but I take care of my responsibilities. You’re staying at my place and I’m not discussing it further.”

  Her pale blue eyes had gone wide and she’d turned her head away, meekly replying, “Okay.”

  It’s the last word she spoke.

  Now, pulling into my spot at the John Ross building where I’ve recently bought a penthouse level condo, Cara makes a squeaking sound from the passenger seat.

  “You live here?” And her tone isn’t kind or surprised, more shocked mixed with disbelief.

  In all the things Jenna and Dan told me about Cara Thompson, neither mentioned her being judgmental. Mostly it was all good things, her artistic abilities and desire to make a living creating art. Her bubbly personality. All of it was so damn spectacular in person, I must have missed something.

  Disappointing.

  “Yep.” I’m snippier than I should be, but I’m losing the ability to care. A lot of people see a man covered in tattoos and think thug. Cara never showed me this side of her and the surprise in her voice reeks of judgment.

  Perhaps I’ve had her pegged all wrong from the beginning. Or she fooled the hell out of me at the wedd
ing.

  “Business must be doing well.”

  With my jaw clenched, I keep my mouth shut and grab the prescription we picked up on our way and open my door. I slam it harsher than I intend, the sound echoing in the underground garage. I’m at her door, opening it just as she does the same.

  I grip her elbow, holding her steady, and guide her to the elevator where I enter my keycard.

  She must notice my irritation because she brushes her dark brown hair off her shoulder and tugs her elbow out of my grip. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she rubs her arms as if she needs to keep warm.

  For once, I don’t bother trying to help her.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  You know, this morning, I was a guy, slightly hungover, more slightly regretting the pretty little redhead I took home from a bar last night. She’d been a gymnast. She hadn’t disappointed me in the least with her flexibility or her strength.

  I woke up, gave her a kiss, and tapped her backside as I escorted her out the door to her waiting Uber, knowing I’d never see her again. Then I went to work thinking it was going to be another completely boring Friday.

  The last thing I expected was this girl in front of me, so innocent and spectacularly sexy in my memories, to show up, proclaim I’d gotten her pregnant, puke all over my office, and faint in my arms only to spend six hours taking care of her. All so she can continue apologizing and acting like her life is over because some asshole who owns tattoo parlors ruined her one brief night of sexual irresponsibility.

  Fuck this.

  The door opens and I step in, leaving Cara behind me. It goes against every instinct I have, but screw her.

  When I turn around, she’s still outside the lift, eyes wide. “Coming?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wait until she’s securely inside and the doors are closed before punching in the floor to my condo. It’s a penthouse, but not the only one on the floor, although it is the largest. I swore to Irvin when I was ten that if he’d help me get out of my neighborhood, I’d buy the largest home I could, and I’d keep watch over the old place.