Page 248 of The Winslow Brothers

She grins and wraps the cuff around my arm. “Yes. If anything comes up in your blood work related to your titer levels or HCG levels or any kind of out-of-the-norm results, we’ll call you.”

“So, like a no news is good news kind of situation?”

A soft laugh leaves Susan’s throat. “Yes.”

I blow out a breath as Susan puts her stethoscope to my arm and checks my blood pressure, but my mind is pretty much a million miles away while she finishes whatever else she needs to do.

Including drawing my freaking blood.

Normally, I’m a lunatic with needles, but the realization of Flynn’s and my carelessness related to sex has provided quite the mental distraction. It’s like my brain is busy doing fucking parkour up there, trying to figure out what the consequences of an unplanned pregnancy with my contractual husband would be.

How would Flynn even react to that kind of news?

I honestly don’t know the answer to that, but it doesn’t matter because I’m on birth control. Obviously. So, all these mental gymnastics are a pointless endeavor.

But it’s certainly interesting that you weren’t exactly terrified over the idea of being pregnant. If anything, you were busy with what Flynn would do…

I shake my head to try to dislodge my obviously crazy thoughts. Now is not the time to have a psychotic breakdown. Surely USCIS will frown upon reading that Dr. Fields has deemed me to be medically insane.

The big immigration interview might be just around the corner, but I’d bet money they’d cancel that shit real quick if a physician sent in paperwork that said I’m a nutcase.

Which is why you need to chill out, you psycho. Just take a breath. And wait to lose your shit for after you leave this office.

Sweet mother of mercy.

As I walk out of Dr. Fields’s office, fresh from an exam and a blood draw and whatever else they had to do to me to make USCIS happy, I head for the subway.

I don’t know why the whole pregnancy question threw me for a loop, but it did.

Both Dr. Fields and Susan assured me that if anything came back outside of the norm—titer levels showing I need a vaccine, or you know, the big P-word—they’d call me. Otherwise, they’d just send everything over to USCIS, and I’d get a copy at my interview.

But there’s no way I’m pregnant…right?

Even when you’re on birth control, there’s a way. And yours just happened to involve a sexy-as-hell man with a big cock.

Goodness. My mind has to stop fixating on pointless things.

I roll my eyes so hard I almost bump into the man in a khaki trench coat walking in front of me on Fifth Avenue. Yes, Flynn and I haven’t exactly been using condoms, but I’m on freakingbirth control, have been for years now, and I don’t feel pregnant.

Not a single symptom, to be honest. No nausea or sore boobs or whatever else women have to deal with when they’re with child.

As I pass a Walgreens on the corner, I almost consider going inside and grabbing a take-home pregnancy test, but before I can step through the automatic doors, logical thought wins out. Just because a nurse had to ask me if I was pregnant doesn’t mean that I’m pregnant. Geez.

Maybe you secretly want to be pregnant? Maybe, deep down, you wish you could have Flynn’s baby?

“Oh, for the love of everything. I have got to stop,” I mutter to myself and hitch my purse up higher on my shoulder. I don’t miss the strange look I get from a woman eating her sandwich on a bench, but I put my head down and focus on getting my ass to the subway so I’m not late for work.

I have an apartment in Nolita to stage, and I’ll be damned if I give Tara even an extra five minutes of time to start making changes on my design plans. The woman is a little too into farmhouse chic, and the three-bedroom, three-million-dollar loft EllisGrey has under contract is the opposite of shiplap and barn doors.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a little Chip and JoJo influences. I’ve seenFixer Upper,and I adore everything the Magnolia brand stands for, but this loft is not the place for it. It needs a minimalist design with sleek, sophisticated touches.

Once I make it onto the subway, I find an open seat across from a college-aged guy with headphones on and a book in his lap, and I proceed to take my cell phone out of my purse and see what I’ve missed.

A few work emails.

And a boatload of texts inside my group chat with Winnie and Sophie.

Sophie: I am freaking out. FREAKING OUT. How is my wedding less than two weeks away?! I haven’t even decided how I’m going to wear my hair or what shoes I’m going to wear with my dress or whether or not the caterers should serve shrimp cocktail at cocktail hour or…basically a million other things I’ve yet to figure out.

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