Page 27 of Stirred Up

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The next morning I’m slow to rise and spend most of it in my pajamas, puttering around. God bless Saturdays. I re-do my nails a cheerful bright pink, wash sheets, and water all my plants, feeling caught up and accomplished. Then, I tackle the dreaded mail pile. It’s a “quirk” about me, one that Brady and Dylan both love to ridicule. I refuse to conform to online billing and automatic drafts. They take money out of your account? Bullshit! Yes, I realize it’s on a set date, but who remembers all of them, every month? Not me. Nor do I want the agony of opening a new bill each day, so my system is stack all week, open everything all at once on the weekend.

Brilliant, I say.

Halfway through the pile, my plan’s failing already, dismay settling in by the fifth invoice, when the bottom of my stomach drops, as well as my jaw.

There’s an envelope from Dr. Reynolds’ office. Mytest results.

Even though he assured me it was most likely the douche that caused the initial inconclusive results, there’s still a chance of something else, something serious. My heart’s racing, a throb building in my temple as unsteady hands struggle to open the letter.

Blowing out a joyful squeal, my eyes read down the column of one “normal” after another. I leap to my feet, tossing the letter in the air as I jubilantly bust out a happy dance.

Shaking my ass, arms above my head, I send up a silent “thank you” to Heaven followed by an air blown kiss. After a few more ridiculous moves, my body begins to slow, breathing heavily, but happily.

I’m okay.

And then...I’m so much more than okay. When I bend down to pick up the strewn papers from the floor, a small Post-it falls out.

In masculine, but surprisingly legible handwriting, the words jump off the page and tug ruthlessly at the depths of me.

Addison, Had these rushed. No more worries, you’re perfect. Dr. R

I’m pretty level headed, except lately, and somewhat of a realist, so I’ve already second guessed the double-entendres of the phrases he’s used, the heavy breaths I thought I heard and every other “little something” my mind’s been telling me was there. Yes, I’m young and admittedly not well-seasoned on matters of the heart or to gyno visits and what they normally entail. But I am positive—heart fluttering, full-body tingles, panties sweating positive that the note currently crushed to my chest is special.

Too anxious to worry or even recall the fact that it’s Saturday, I grab my phone, fingers itching to dial, unsure yet of my guise or master plan... I just have to act, have to jump and see where I fall.

Divinely, someone picks up on the second ring. “Dr. Reynolds’ answering service.”

Crap.I chomp down on my bottom lip. “Oh, yes hello. Um, so the office isn’t open today?”

“No ma’am, but we can help you. Is this anemergency?”

“N-no, not an emergency,” I stammer, contemplating if my racing pulse can be declared an emergency.

“Are you an expectant mother or in labor?”

“No, I—” My words fall off.Think!What do I want? “I need to make an appointment,” I recite calmly. There we go—agenda set on its own.

She proceeds to ask me a series of way too intrusive questions to ascertain if my appointment can indeed wait and be scheduled at a later date. I pass her test, insisting I need to get on the books as soon as possible. In her monotone rambling, she recites several days and times as choices, and I immediately cut in and choose the soonest—Monday at four.

Excellent.

Only two days away and merely an hour of work missed. The rest of the weekend, said no one, ever, drags by.

Chapter 10

Feeling good, fresh as a daisy and sexy as ever, I’m perched on the edge of the exam table, fully dressed and impossibly anxious, swinging my crossed ankles back and forth in anticipation. I’d opted not to don the robe, mildly confident that the brilliant excuse I’ve concocted doesn’t call for it, but took care of all my pre-game prep, minus the douche,in case it does.

Unlike before, when he knocks lightly and sticks his head in today, I’m not trying to make myself as small as possible with my head down. Rather, my chin and chest are up and proud, my eyes meeting his dead-on.

“Hi, Dr. Reynolds,” I greet him first.

“Addison,” he draws out my name in a low, tantalizing hum and steps fully inside, shutting the door behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

My guess would be that smile, voice, body and sexual prowess. But just a guess.

“The appointment sheet says you called over the weekend. Everything alright? Did you get your results? They were mailed the other day, all normal.” Eyes taking on concern, he steps closer.

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