Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Yes. Yep, that’s me. And this is Matt, my . . .” I half turn toward him at the same moment I run out of words. My pretend escort turned real mogul turned ultimate surprise? My one-night stand baby daddy?
“The father,” Matt says, linking his fingers between mine. He gives them a reassuring (or forgiving) squeeze. And if the doctor is handsome, then I don’t rightly know what Matt is. Handsome plus?
“Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says, his tone matter of fact. “Take a seat.” He casually indicates a pair of leather chairs on the other side of his huge desk.
The room’s proportions are oversize, the accents understated Georgian splendor. An original marble fireplace, crown moldings, and window shutters, contrasted by the high-end spa feel. We’re at some fancy-assed obstetrics clinic on Harley Street, the place in London world renowned for medical excellence.
Matt suggested he arrange the appointment, but I argued there was no point, given that I wouldn’t have a visa or medical insurance for many more days. The reality was more that I refused to give Theta the satisfaction of seeing charges for prenatal anything. No need for them to congratulate themselves more on their decision. But Matt was adamant we should be reassured that all is as it should be. I assumed it was more that he needed to be sure I was telling the truth. At least until he said something that blew those thoughts right out of my head.
“You’re carrying our child.” He reached for my hand, taking it between his own. “I can’t help you do that physically, but I would be honored if you could try to let me shoulder some of the responsibility in the ways I can.”
I couldn’t argue, thanks to the emotional lump that filled my throat. My God, tears are bad enough, but I detest feeling like a vessel of seething emotions. I can only hope this is a short-lived symptom of this pregnancy. A temporary madness that won’t last the full nine months.
Of course, the practical side of me wonders exactly what kind of help Matt will be to me when I’m back in the States. What kind of father, even. But I owe him this much. So two days later, here we are.
We take our seats as Dr. Hottie—I mean, Dr. Travers—leans back in his chair.
“Thanks for fitting us in,” Matt begins, all business himself. “We appreciate it.”
“Yes, so much,” I agree, shooting the hot doc a bright smile. We’re in this together, Matt and I. Parents-to-be, not together, but civil all the same.
In the daily course of my job, my former job, I made decisions involving huge chunks of wealth, and I have a pretty great track record. Some might attribute my success to historical data or trends, some to the availability of highly technical mathematical modeling. Others might say it’s a learned knowledge. Or nothing but luck—the way the wind blows, how far Mercury is in retrograde, or how many roosters I sacrificed on my altar that morning.
Seriously, I was asked that on the trading floor once.
But the truth is, much of my success is down to an innate gut judgment system. I know intrinsically when and how to trade. Where and with whom. And when to hedge. It’s probably a kind of sixth sense developed during my childhood. Knowing when to be present and when to be invisible saved me a lot of stress and whuppings.
It maybe even saved my life once or twice.
So when I stared at the pee stick test three days ago and read the little proclamation of “Pregnant,” despite the shock, deep down, I knew I’d be going through with this. It wasn’t a decision exactly, because there was little rational thought involved. It was just something I recognized deep inside. The right path, I guess. My life was altering, my body was preparing to become a mother, and that was that.
What I didn’t factor into this new future was Matt’s involvement. I didn’t give him much of a thought. And when I did spare him a little brain space, I just assumed I wouldn’t be able to get out of the country fast enough for him. In other words, his reaction has been unexpected. To say the least.
“It’s my pleasure.” Hot Doc Travers smiles widely as I play back my words, wondering if I’ve spilled all that, rather than keeping it all at a cerebral level. “Really,” he adds. “An extra hour in the office means I miss my youngest’s piano lesson.”
A relieved chuckle bursts out of me, though I turn it into a cough delivered to my fist.
“It’s bad enough listening to him plink-plonking on the thing,” he says, his fingers drumming the air above his desk, “but the bloody dog has to join in, howling along. The place is like a madhouse,” he says with the slightest hint of a Scots accent. “Aye, well. Parenthood is the best kind of madness. Something you’ll learn for yourselves in due course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He picks up a pair of dark-framed glasses and, slipping them on, adds two more attractive points to his tally. “So. Ryan, how are you feeling?” he asks, reaching for the iPad again.