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)
“I’m pretty sure I feel pregnant. And according to the home test I did a couple of days ago, I am.”
“Then pregnant you are.”
“For sure? Don’t I need a blood test or something to confirm it?” I could’ve been making it all up. Should I have brought the pee stick?
“Well, there’s a chance that you might feel like a bit of a pincushion by the time we’re through. But no, home tests are very accurate these days. You’re in the right place.”
“Oh, right. Well, I guess I’m pregnant,” I say, glancing Matt’s way, who slides me the kind of look that makes my heart go pitter-pat.
“So you’re thirty-five years and one month?” The doc glances at the tablet again.
“Yep. Yes, the nineteenth.”
“It was your birthday last month?” Matt glances my way again. “Sorry I missed it,” he adds quietly.
“You weren’t to know.” Oh, my Lord. This is grade A awkward, especially as I glance back to the doctor to find him looking at us over the rim of his glasses. Thankfully, he’s too professional to comment. “And that makes me a geriatric mom-to-be.”
Next to me, Matt scoffs.
“That’s a thing,” I say, my eyes sliding his way. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s nothing we’ll worry about just now,” puts in the doc. “Looking ahead, I typically work out of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. I assume you were told that at the time of booking?”
“Yes, the receptionist did mention it,” Matt answers.
“But this is just kind of a preliminary . . . appointment,” I put in, landing on the right word. “I’m going back to the US soon.” Very soon. Monday, in fact.
“Right,” Dr. Hottie says, sliding Matt a look that appears more than a little judgy.
“We haven’t sorted out the finer details,” I add, coming to his defense. “This is all very new. We’re still trying to get our heads around how everything will . . .” My words trail off as I flounder, not able to adequately express my thoughts. My expectations. My hopes.
“We’ll make it work,” Matt intones, reaching over to touch my knee. The spot still feels warm as he lifts his hand away.
“Symptoms?” the doc asks next. I appreciate that his manner is very matter of fact.
“I feel as sick as a dog. Nothing has tasted right since I got here, and now I think I know why. And I’ve been sort of tired, but I put that down to work.”
“You’re a hedge fund trader.” His attention flicks to the tablet again.
“Yes.” I filled out the form almost by rote. What I do for a living is part of who I am, even if I’m not doing it right now.
“I imagine that’s quite a stressful career.”
“It can be.” I glance down at my hands in my lap. You’re about to be a mom, no longer a mover or a shaker. I push the tiny fear aside. “Maybe not as stressful as delivering babies.”
“I have the best job in the world,” he says with a genuine-sounding pleasure. “But your symptoms all sound very normal.”
“I’ve been . . . emotional too.”
“Also very normal,” he says, beginning to rifle through his desk drawer, pulling out something that looks like it might be used in a middle school math class to measure angles. “You haven’t included the date of your last period.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “My cycle is kind of erratic.” I feel my brow crease. “I guess I had some spotting a few weeks back that I thought was my period.”
“Right.”
“I mean, I have been under more stress recently.”
The doctor’s gaze slides Matt’s way again.
“Work-related stress,” I qualify.
He drops the angle-calculator thing to the desktop. “Not to worry, we can use the—”
“Would the date of conception help?” Matt offers up suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” I offer the doc before shooting Matt a glare. “That was a little—”
“Inappropriate?” Matt’s tone is unrepentant as he adjusts one of the pleats in his pants. “I’m sure the doctor knows how babies are made.”
“Aye.” Dr. Hottie’s gaze bounces between us, filled with humor. “That I do. Theoretically and practically,” he adds under his breath as he scribbles something down on a pad. Honestly? It looks like a delaying tactic as he composes himself, as he tries not to give in to the urge to laugh. “So the date?” he manages eventually. Without looking up.
“The twenty-fifth of October. Or the twenty-sixth,” Matt adds as his gaze captures mine.
I look away as my cheeks turn nuclear.
“So you’re looking at the eighteenth of July as your due date. We’ll check that out with a scan in a bit.”
“A scan?”
“Aye. If you’d pop into the next room, Jenny will weigh you, take your blood pressure, do your bloods, and so on.”
As though summoned by his words, a nurse, Jenny, I presume, materializes in the room. “This way, my lovely,” she singsongs.