Page 92 of Single Mom's Daddies
He stares at me for another beat then slides behind the wheel. The door shuts with a solidthunk. “You know, if you’re going to pretend to be friendly, you can always buy my cup of coffee. Federal agents don’t make what they should.”
I laugh too loud. “Next time.”
He pulls away slowly, and I half expect him to come back and ask what the hell I’m up to. But he doesn’t. I stay where I am until the SUV vanishes behind a passing truck. Then I exhale, letting my shoulders drop.
Still alive. No shot fired. But my palms are sweating.
I turn and walk slowly back toward where I parked, not bothering to check the window. My phone buzzes before I’m even inside the car.
Blocked number.You can’t guard him forever.
I stare at the screen, the cold from outside still trapped in my coat. The words sit like a blade against the base of my spine. I don’t text back. I don’t even blink. I just sit there, the ghost of the rifle’s scope still burned into my peripheral vision.
He didn’t pull the trigger. But Max never wastes a setup. He’s letting me know this was just the first pass. And next time, I might not be fast enough.
25
SAFFRON
I wake up feeling…off.
It’s not a cold. Not a fever. But something isn’t right. My skin feels too tight. My stomach flips for no reason. My mouth tastes metallic, and I feel like I’ve been breathing someone else’s air.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling in the soft early light filtering through the curtains. The cottage is quiet. Ivy is probably still sleeping. The nurses shift around seven, and breakfast starts at eight. That gives me an hour, maybe two, to figure out if I’m sick—or just losing my mind.
Because if I am sick, I can’t be anywhere near Ivy.
The thought alone is enough to make my heart punch against my ribs. I just got her here. Seeing her every day has meant the world to me. But I won’t put her at risk either.
I get up slowly and tug on a sweater, pushing my hair into a messy bun and slipping outside. Sun’s just coming up, so the others should be in bed yet. The polished wood is cool beneath my feet inside the mansion. Down the stairs, past the kitchen—where someone’s already baking bread—and around the corner,I find Dr. Vlad hunched over a tablet at the dining room table, already deep into his charts.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
His head lifts, sharp gaze locking on mine like he’s already diagnosing me by the way I’m standing. “Symptoms?”
“Stomach’s weird. Dizzy this morning. Metal taste. No fever.”
He stands immediately. “Guest clinic.”
I follow him through the side corridor, into a sleek converted office off the east wing—his private exam space. Could be a room in any hospital with its cold white tile and stainless steel tools. The smell of antiseptic hangs in the air, clean and clinical.
He checks my blood pressure. Pupils. Makes me sit. Asks how long I’ve been feeling this way. The usual. And then he cocks his head. “You’ve been nauseated this week?”
“A little,” I admit. “Off and on.”
“Breasts sore?”
I freeze. “What?”
“I’m going to run a pregnancy test?—”
“I’m on the pill.”
His brow lifts, and he gives me a long, unimpressed look. “These things happen?—”
“I don’t screw it up. I take it at the same time every day.”
He shrugs. “Then maybe your body’s just stubborn.” He holds out the cup, waiting patiently.
