Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(17)

Way to be a total freak, Lucy.

I only debate using a fake name for a minute before starting all the paperwork. I scrawl “Lucille” as messily as possible, hoping whoever has to input it into the computer can read it, while anyone else who comes across it will be clueless.

The questions about STDs make my heart curl up in my throat. I wonder for the tenth time why I didn’t care enough to worry about a condom that night. But I know, if I’m honest. It’s because I was so lust-drunk. I hopped on his dick like a ride at the fair. I never thought twice.

I rub my freshly waxed brows, digging my fingertips into my forehead.

At least the sex was good.

A few minutes later, I’ve handed in my clipboard and the little “Implanon” pen when one of the doors beside the receptionist desk swings open, and a short nurse with spiky black and pink hair scans the waiting room.

“Lucille?”

Bless this woman for not saying “Rhodes” after. I lunge at her, smiling in lieu of using actual words—since mine are obviously Southern. Despite my family squawking about me losing my accent since I moved here, Coloradoans ask about it every flipping time.

The woman weighs me, takes my blood pressure, and listens to my heartbeat while I avoid breathing in her face and pray my deodorant is holding up. I hate being examined at close range. Was never comfortable with the makeup artists and the groomers on TRoC.

Julie—according to her nametag—hands me a small plastic cup and a tiny square which, after I’ve shut myself in the bathroom, I find is an alcohol-soaked “towelette.”

Oh God.

I spend a minute staring at my pee cup before sitting it on the little metal ledge cut into the wall. Then I take a picture of it.

I step back into the hallway and go to the room Julie told me would be mine. I don’t expect anyone for at least fifteen minutes, so I text Amelia the picture. I’m hoping for a Gross! Instead she replies BABY JUICE! and it’s my turn to text DISGUSTING!

As I watch the little bubble on my phone, showing me she’s typing, the door swings open and Julie re-appears, wearing a big smile and holding a small pink stick.

“Here it is!” She holds it out to me. “You’re pregnant.”

The stick shows two lines, plus a digital reading: PREGNANT.

“I thought you might want to keep it.” She’s still smiling like she won the lottery. My smile back is reflexive.

“Sure.”

I feel a few warm fuzzies as I slide the stick into my purse, despite it technically containing pee.

I lean back on my arms, making the table’s tissue-paper topping crinkle.

The nurse gives me a smile-frown. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

I shrug, playing it cool as my heart races. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Her eyes widen as her hand flies to her mouth. “You were on E! news!”

“Yeah?”

She nods vehemently. “This morning! I was eating breakfast. I watch it every day while I eat breakfast,” she confesses. “You’re one of the Rhodes girls.” She shakes her head as she grins. “I should have noticed when I saw your chart. It says Lucille, but you go by Lucy.”

I nod, trying to smile politely.

“But you left the show—and now you’re living here?”

I nod, arching an eyebrow.

She gets the message then, thank God: that I don’t want to talk about TRoC. “I’ll draw a few vials of blood and we’ll get you on out of here.” She takes several plastic packets from a cabinet, looking over her shoulder as she asks, “Do you have questions for me?”

My heart does a weird, slow somersault, ending up near my throat. “What’s the rate of miscarriage?”

“Based on your last period, I’d put you at about—heck, let’s just do an ultrasound.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?” She smiles, lying her palm atop a TV-looking screen that’s perched on a rolling cart.

I inhale slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“First timer, huh?”

I nod, feeling thankful when she doesn’t push for more details.

A few minutes later, my lower belly is covered with cool gel and being prodded with a wand, and I’m staring at a bleary little smudge of baby on a small, portable ultrasound machine.

“Oh my God. A baby,” I murmur. That’s a real baby! “My baby…”

She laughs. “That’s your baby. See this?” she asks me, pointing to the jagged white line running along the bottom of the screen. “That means the baby has a heartbeat. Which means,” she says, “the baby’s odds of thriving just got better.” She takes some measurements, then says, “Looks like you’re seven weeks and three days along.”

“So if I want to feel less worried,” I say as she wipes the gel off my stomach, “I need to make it to twelve weeks?”

She nods. Her face is sympathetic. “I’m sure you must have a lot on your mind. Twelve weeks will be here before you know it if you keep busy. And I think you will.”

I pull my shirt down. What does that mean? My gaze travels to my bare ring finger, and I decide that must be it.

“I’m not married, but it’s fine with me,” I reassure her. “I’m not ultra-conservative like some Southerners.”