The ER's Newest Dad. Janice Lynn
prickled. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”
She closed her eyes, swallowed then took a ragged breath.
“I need to get out of here,” she mumbled, so low he barely made out what she said. “I don’t feel well.”
“Sir, is everything okay?” the hostess asked, the young girl’s wide eyes glued to where Brielle dropped her head to between her knees.
“My friend isn’t feeling well. Which unfortunately means we won’t be staying.” He pulled out his wallet, handed the girl a twenty. “Please give that to our waitress to cover my drink and her trouble.”
His gaze went back to Brielle. She still leaned forward, rocked slightly back and forth.
“Let’s go, honey.” He helped her sit up, but one glance at her ashen face was more than enough to prompt him to make a quick decision.
He scooped her into his arms, waited while the hostess opened the restaurant door, and then carried her to his car, with her protesting the entire time that she could walk.
“Can you stand long enough for me to open the door?”
Still trembling, she nodded against his chest. “Put me down. I’m so embarrassed.”
She felt good in his arms. What kind of cad was he anyway to notice how good she felt against him when she was ill? Still, he wanted nothing more than to keep holding her, to keep breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers. To keep feeling her warm body against his.
He’d missed her so much.
More than he’d admitted even to himself until that very moment.
“I said put me down,” she said, with more gusto than he would have thought possible based on how pale she’d looked inside the restaurant. “You should never have picked me up like that!”
He didn’t point out that she’d looked too weak to stand. Now didn’t seem the time to start an argument. Instead, he gently put her on her feet, keeping his hand on her, ready to steady her if she swayed, ready to sweep her back into his arms if she stumbled.
He unlocked his door, helped her into his passenger seat, then got into the driver’s side of the car. Rather than start the engine, he turned to her, watched her stare straight ahead, wishing he could know what was running through her head.
“You okay?” Crazy question when she obviously wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to say to break the silence stretching between them.
“Fine. Couldn’t be better.” Sarcasm didn’t become her, but her color was beginning to look a little brighter, not so ghostly.
“What’s going on? You coming down with something?”
“I’m not ill, just embarrassed at the spectacle we just made.”
She attempted to make light of his question, but he’d have to be a fool not to realize her laugh was forced.
“Nothing contagious, at any rate,” she continued, still staring straight out the window.
He stared at her miserable profile, at how her shoulders sagged, at how her hand rested on her abdomen, and a possible explanation of her symptoms, of her rejection of him, hit so hard that he thought he might be ill, too.
Acid burned the back of his throat, searing him straight through.
“You’re pregnant?” He hated the words, hated asking, but he had to know. Had to know if he was too late. If he’d stayed in denial of his feelings for too long, let someone else move in and steal Brielle’s heart. Claim her body.
Her jaw fell. She turned to him, her eyes round and her expression aghast. “No,” she denied so forcefully he couldn’t doubt her. “I’m not pregnant. Why would you think that?”
“Because you were nauseated and looked like you were going to pass out.” Relief washed through Ross but didn’t fully ease his suspicions. “You’re holding your stomach.” He grimaced, wanting to hold his own nauseated stomach. “You’re sure you aren’t pregnant?”
Her hand fell to her side. She closed her eyes and laughed, though it sounded bitter-sweet. “I’m not pregnant.”
Something about her answer struck him as odd, as not quite the whole story. “How can you be positive?”
“I’m not pregnant. Let’s leave it at that.” Sarcasm bit into her words.
“Maybe you are and don’t know it.” Why he persisted he wasn’t sure. Maybe because the thought that she might be bothered him so greatly that he wanted to be one hundred per cent certain that she wasn’t.
“I am not pregnant. End of story.” She blew out an exasperated breath, dropped her head against his dashboard and rolled it back and forth slowly, before sitting back up to stare blankly ahead. “Men are so dense.”
Wondering at her actions, he frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you were oblivious when you should have …” She trailed off, closed her eyes and put her hand to her head, wincing as if in pain again.
“Headache?” he guessed, wondering why breathing suddenly felt easier at her assurance she wasn’t pregnant, wondering at her comment and wishing she’d finished it.
She nodded. “I think one is coming on. If you’ll take me somewhere to where I can lie down for a minute, I’m sure it’ll pass.”
She was looking pale again and as if she’d like to bring up anything in her stomach. “You need a bag or something to barf in?”
“Very technical term there, Dr. Lane, and, no, I don’t need a barf bag. I haven’t eaten anything since early this morning.”
Why hadn’t she eaten? Sure, they had been busy at the hospital, but she was supposed to have had a lunch-break. How had he not noticed that she hadn’t taken one?
“That’s probably why you feel so poorly and is likely what triggered your headache. Hypoglycemia is serious business, Brielle. You shouldn’t play around with your health. You know better.”
Eyes closed, face squished, she shook her head and pointed towards the road. “It’s not hypoglycemia. My blood sugar is fine. I’m fine. Just drive.”
Ross wasn’t sure where he was supposed to take her, but a place to lie down was a requirement he didn’t have a lot of choices on. He took her to the furnished apartment he’d leased for the three months he’d be in Bean’s Creek.
Despite her protests that she was fine to walk, he carried her inside, laid her on his sofa, pulled her tennis shoes off and propped her feet on one of the throw pillows that had come with the apartment.
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” he promised. “Don’t move.”
Eyes closed, she grunted in acknowledgement of his comment. He fetched a glass of orange juice and a couple of tablets to knock out her pain.
“I don’t recall you having issues with headaches. How often do you get these?” he asked when she’d settled back on the sofa. He placed a cold, damp cloth on her forehead and stroked loose hairs away from her face.
“Almost never.” Hating that his touch felt so good, Brielle closed her eyes, willed her body not to respond to the gentle strokes of his fingers brushing over her face, her hair.
“Sometimes hormonal changes can trigger headaches.”
“Stop it, Ross. I am not pregnant,” she repeated, enunciating each word with emphasis.
Really, could the situation be any more ironic? When she’d been pregnant with his child, he’d failed to notice the changes to her routine, to her body. Tonight, when she’d merely felt ill, he’d immediately jumped to that conclusion. Men.
“Are you dating