The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(83)

“What does that mean?”

“Your blood work showed that you’re pregnant.”

Time halts. Brakes squeal. The world stops spinning.

“I’m sorry…what?”

“You’re pregnant, Daisy. And estimating by your HCG levels, I’d say you were about five to six weeks when you were in my office, so you’re probably seven to eight weeks along now.”

I shake my head. “T-that can’t be.”

“I can understand this comes a shock, especially since you’re finding out two weeks later than you should have. Again, I really apologize for that.”

“But I’m on birth control. The Depo shot. I have been for years now.”

“Birth control isn’t one-hundred-percent effective, Daisy. Do you remember the last time you had your shot? Or the last time you had a period?”

My last period? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not the organized type that keeps it all marked on a calendar. I’m more of the type that finds out she’s on her period when she’s in a bathroom stall at a restaurant and Aunt Flo decides to ruin her underwear.

And my shot? I mean, I’ve been getting it regularly, every three months, even since I moved to LA.

Yeah, well, you’re the woman who forgot to renew her work visa, so it’s highly possible you’ve messed something up here…

When I think back to the last time I had my Depo shot, I know that it was Christmastime because Dr. Lowe’s waiting area was decked out with garland and stockings and a giant tree in the corner.

Which means it was December. And it’s May, almost fucking June.

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper and lift a hand to my mouth. “Holy shit, I’m pregnant! How did I not notice that I’m pregnant? Isn’t that something that a woman should know?!” Oh my God. I’m one of those women who end up having her baby in the toilet because she’s clueless!

“Every woman’s body reacts differently to pregnancy, and while some experience a lot of symptoms in the first trimester, some women don’t. Maybe you’re one of the lucky few who doesn’t have to deal with morning sickness and constipation.” She laughs, but I sure as shit don’t feel like laughing.

I am in the midst of existential absurdity, and it feels like I’m the butt of the universe’s biggest cosmic joke. I mean, who finds out they’re pregnant with their fake husband’s baby on the same night they walk away from their fake husband, even though they don’t want to walk away from their fake husband at all because, in all actuality, they love their fake husband so much they wish he was their real husband?

Apparently, you are this woman.

My life is an absolute dumpster fire, and this news just added gasoline to the already blazing flames. If I’m seven or eight weeks pregnant, that would mean…that you and Flynn literally consummated your marriage in Vegas.

“Daisy, are you there?”

“How do you know for sure?” I blurt out and begin to pace the small space in front of my hotel bed. “I mean, if the lab results got all screwed up, how do you know that I’m really pregnant? Maybe it’s another one of your patient’s labs. Maybe I got a pregnant woman’s HCG result mixed with my labs! Maybe you’ve called the wrong woman!”

Or maybe, you’re the pregnant woman, you no-period-having, missed-birth-control-shot lunatic.

“I can assure you, it’s your results,” Dr. Fields responds, and her voice is surprisingly calm for handling a raging psycho. “And while HCG levels are a definitive test, Daisy,” she continues, but I’m already done with the conversation, “I want you to follow up with an OB-GYN in the city. Her name is Dr. Marissa Summers. She’s really—”

“I have to go!” I cut her off and don’t wait for her response.

Instead, I shut my phone off and throw it onto the bed, grab my purse, and head right back out my hotel room door in search of the nearest Walgreens or CVS or whatever the hell place is open this late and has pregnancy tests.

No way I’m pregnant. Obviously, they’ve made a mistake…right?





Flynn

The peace and quiet that usually come with stepping into my apartment don’t give me the relief they normally do.

Instead of feeling relaxed, I feel as if I’m about to crawl out of my fucking skin.

I can’t deny that I was hopeful Daisy would’ve somehow ended up back here. That she would’ve changed her mind and I would’ve found her sitting on the couch.

But she’s not. Daisy is… gone.

And you didn’t do a damn thing to stop her, you dense motherfucker.

In the kitchen, I tug the fridge door open with a harsh pull of my wrist and grab a beer. But I barely have the top popped off and the bottle to my lips when several pounding knocks echo into the otherwise silence of my apartment.

My heart races with anticipation, and I don’t waste any time striding into the entryway and yanking the door open.

But the one person I want to be on the other side isn’t there.

“That was quite the show back there,” Rem says by way of greeting, and I furrow my brow in question. “You know, in the street, with you and Daisy.”

I stare at him, and he takes it upon himself to step inside my apartment and shut the door with a kick of his boot.