Page 25 of Not Ready

The doctor’s office isn’t packed, but at least three other women are waiting to be seen.

My hand starts cramping halfway through the massive amount of paperwork. It’s always embarrassing not to have any idea what to fill in for her father’s side of the medical history, but I leave it blank and accept that the doctor will ask why.

It’s very difficult not to burst into tears when the woman behind the counter tells me it’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars for the visit without insurance, but I hand over my credit card. Once that’s done, I trudge back to my seat.

I should have asked Holt to take me to urgent care. Most of those top out at a hundred dollars, no matter the reason for the visit.

Holt waits for me on one of the two-seater benches. He’s got his arm stretched across the back of the seat, and I briefly consider sitting on the single chair on his other side. It’s an unknown environment, and he did help me feel a little more relaxed earlier when he marked me with his pheromones. I take the seat with his arm over the back of the chair and try to ignore the way his beachy, salty scent fills the air.

“All good?” he asks, leaning close.

“Yeah,” I agree.

“How much longer until the baby comes? Like, how far along are you?”

One of the women a few feet away, with her chair facing us, gives Holt a disdainful frown.

“Pregnancy is weird. Everyone says pregnancy is nine months, but it technically goes to forty weeks, which is the very beginning of the tenth month.”

“Huh, that is weird. So it’s like the full nine months. Gotcha, and where are you at in all that?”

“Thirty-four weeks. Basically, it’s the worst time ever to need to find a new doctor.” I force a laugh. “Okay, outside of maybe being in labor or something.”

“Don’t stress at all. Patrick is going to take good care of you. He’s Marina’s son.” Holt’s hand falls to my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Boy or girl?”

“A girl. Well, according to the ultrasound.” I smile, running my hand over my stomach. “I’m hoping it’s accurate. I’m already pretty attached to the idea of having a daughter. Not that I wouldn’t be happy with either, but I’m a woman. I guess I just feel more prepared to tackle raising a daughter than a son. One of my friends from work…” I frown, remembering I no longer work there. “Anyway, she has a five-year-old boy. She said it was a nightmare potty training him. She finally had to teach him to pee sitting down.” I laugh, remembering how exasperated she seemed about the entire ordeal.

The nurse pops out the door leading to the back. “Vale? You can come on back.”

Holt stands and offers me his hands. He helps me up and follows me to the door without asking if it’s okay. Not that I’d turn down the company, as pathetic as it sounds.

This doctor’s office is about a million times fancier than the one I’m used to. Holt keeps me company the entire time, except for when I visit the restroom. I have to give a urine sample, get my blood drawn, have my height and weight taken, and a bunch of other stuff I’m used to doing at every visit. Once that’s done, we’re brought to a room.

I’m surprised the nurse doesn’t put me in a gown, but considering Holt is here, I’m actually grateful for that.

We don’t wait long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, at most, and the doctor comes in. He’s young, probably mid-thirties if I had to guess, and he’s smoking hot.

Like, ridiculously attractive.

He has short blond hair that falls over his forehead and gray eyes. His strong jaw is clean-shaven, which might be why he looks so young.

I’m suddenly so much more grateful that they didn’t put me in one of the awful gowns and a paper sheet.

“Holton Hayes, it’s been a minute. How are you?” the doctor asks, coming into the room. He strides over, extending a hand to Holt. They exchange pleasantries, and I wait to be acknowledged. Once he’s done, he comes over and pulls the rolling chair close. “I’m Dr. Garza. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I paste on a plastic smile. “Vale. Thank you for getting me in on such short notice.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s nothing. Also, my mother would’ve accompanied you herself if I didn’t fit you in right away. None of us needed that headache.” Dr. Garza chuckles good-naturedly and pulls out a tablet. “All right. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He hums. “You’re getting close. We don’t have your records from your last OB yet. Any high blood pressure?”

“No.”

“Signs or concerns of preeclampsia?”

“Nothing she mentioned.”

“Good. Any visual disturbances—is your vision fuzzier than usual?” he asks.

“No.”

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