Page 70 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
The nurse glances at the clipboard, then at Quinn, asking more or less the same questions she asked me earlier. “We just need to go over the standard questions again. Any recent illnesses? Medications? Have you had a tattoo or piercing in the last year?”
Quinn answers smoothly, calm, since she’s done this routine before. I watch her lips move and think about kissing them later, about how much she grounds me without even trying.
Then the nurse asks, “And just to confirm, no chance you could be pregnant?”
Quinn freezes. I mean really freezes. Her shoulders tense, her lips part, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t have an immediate answer.
I sit forward in my chair, pulse picking up. “Quinn?”
She blinks, laughs a little too quickly. “Um... I-I don’t think so. I mean, I haven’t—“ She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks.
The nurse doesn’t look rattled. “If there’s even a possibility, we’ll need to do a quick test before we proceed. Just to be safe.”
I catch the way Quinn grips the armrest, her knuckles turning white. My chest tightens, because this isn’t the Quinn I know—the one who stands tall in front of anyone, who could stare down the devil himself and not blink. This is fear.
The nurse excuses herself to grab the test kit, and for a moment it’s just us.
“Darlin’,” I murmur, leaning toward her. “Talk to me.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide, whispering, “I-I missed my period.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. My brain blanks just as the nurse returns, cheerful and efficient, and Quinn disappears with her toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with a storm I can’t name.
I pace the tiny waiting area like a caged bull. My arm still stings where they stuck me, but I can’t sit still, not when Quinn’sbehind that door with a test that could flip our entire world upside down.
My mind’s a damn stampede. She missed her period. We weren’t careful every time. What if she is?
I scrub a hand over my face, try to breathe through it. I’ve been through hell and back with my addiction, fought to earn trust again, clawed my way to a clean slate. I can handle a lot. But the idea of bringing a kid into this, into me—it terrifies the life out of me.
And yet, a part of me can’t stop imagining it. Quinn with a tiny baby curled against her chest. Me, holding something so small and fragile, swearing I’d never let them see the man I used to be. A family. Mine. Ours.
The door opens, snapping me out of it. The nurse comes first, her expression polite but unreadable, and behind her is Quinn, pale as paper. She won’t look at me.
“Mr. Morgan,” the nurse says gently, “the test is positive. Congratulations.”
The word hangs there—congratulations—as if it belongs in this sterile hallway, as if it isn’t about to turn my whole life inside out.
Positive.
My throat locks up. I can’t speak. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at Quinn, whose arms are wrapped tightly around herself as if she’s holding her world together by sheer will.
I want to reach for her. I want to tell her we’ll figure it out, that I’ll stand by her no matter what. But the words get stuck in the mess of fear, awe, and something deeper I can’t even name yet.
Quinn’s lip trembles. Her eyes flick to mine for half a second, wide and panicked, before she bolts. She just turns and runs down the corridor.
“Quinn!” I shout after her.
For a moment I just stand there, staring after her, my chest heaving, the nurse watching me as if she’s not sure whether I’ll break or follow.
I know one thing, though. I can’t let her face this alone.
And so, even with my pulse still rattling in my ears, I take off after her.
The word positive keeps echoing in my head. Positive. Pregnant. Father. All of it lands heavy, like I’ve been thrown flat on my back in the dirt.
27
QUINN
