Page 59 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I straighten up, pasting on a semblance of composure. "Yeah, just nerves, you know. Dom's injury and all," I reply, hoping she buys the half-truth.
She gives me a long, assessing look. "Have you had these symptoms before? Times when you weren't feeling nervous?"
I pause, recalling the unexpected nausea that hit me just the other night, the unease that's been haunting me. "Yeah, a couple of times," I admit reluctantly.
The medic nods, her expression turning thoughtful. "Do you mind if I do a quick checkup?"
A little taken aback, I nod my consent. It's probably nothing, just stress or a stomach bug, but better safe than sorry.
The medic runs through a brief but thorough examination, her professionalism comforting in its routine.
The medic, with a practiced hand, checks my vitals—my pulse, my blood pressure, all the while maintaining a calm, professional demeanor that somehow makes the small cabin's bathroom feel less claustrophobic.
"Your heart rate's a bit elevated, but that could be due to stress," she comments, making notes on her clipboard.
Then, she asks that question, catching me completely off guard. "Can you tell me about your recent sexual activity?"
I stiffen, taken aback. "Why would that matter?" I ask, my voice laced with defensiveness. Why is she delving into my personal life? This is just supposed to be a check on my sudden sickness, not an intrusion into my private affairs.
The medic meets my gaze, her expression unflappable. "It's standard procedure in a checkup, especially with your symptoms," she explains calmly. "We need to consider all possibilities, and it helps to have a full picture of your health. It's just part of the process."
Her explanation, logical and devoid of judgment, diffuses my initial defensiveness. She's right. It makes sense to be thorough, and her professional detachment makes the situation less embarrassing. "Alright," I relent, my cheeks still flushed. "Yes, I've been sexually active recently."
She nods. “I’m going to get some supplies for Dom from the truck. And… let me grab something else, too—assuming I have one in there.”
She steps out for a moment, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts. What could she be thinking? It's not like...
She returns with a small box in her hand—a pregnancy test. My heart skips a beat at the sight of it. "Just to rule out any possibilities," she says, handing it to me.
I stare at the box, my mind reeling. Pregnancy? No, that's crazy. But as I think about it, the pieces start to uncomfortably align. The nausea, the fatigue, the way my emotions have been all over the place...
"Take your time," the medic says gently. "I'll be outside if you need anything."
She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I'm left staring at the small, life-altering box in my hands. Could I be pregnant? The thought is both terrifying and absurd. I'm Isabella Carrington, the woman with a plan, the woman who's always in control. And this most certainly wasn't part of the plan.
But as I sit there, the possibility becomes more real, more tangible. And with it comes a flood of questions, fears, and what-ifs. What about my career, my future with the StarPucks? What about Dom and this whole fake engagement mess?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I make a decision. I need to know, one way or another. With trembling hands, I open the box and follow the instructions, my future hanging in the balance.
The minutes I spend waiting for the result feel like hours, each second heavy with potential consequences. In this brief span of time, a myriad of possible futures flash through my mind—some filled with challenges and others with unexpected joy. But each scenario is tinged with the undeniable weight of responsibility and the overwhelming sense of a life irrevocably changed.
And then it’s ready. The test beeps, letting me know it has an answer waiting.
I stare at the positive sign on the pregnancy test, my mind whirling in disbelief. It's as if the world around me has slowed down, every second stretching into an eternity. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of emotions—shock, fear, and a surreal sense of wonder.
The medic knocks and re-enters, her expression turning to one of gentle congratulations as she sees the test in my hand. "Well, looks like congratulations are in order," she says, her tone warm and supportive.
"Thanks," I manage to reply, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. I'm still processing the reality of the situation—I'm pregnant, and everything is about to change.
We move into the main living area of the cabin, where the medic begins to offer me advice on prenatal health care. Her words flow over me, but I'm only half-listening. My mind is elsewhere, grappling with the enormity of what this means for my future, for my career, and for... Dom.
I'm jolted back to the present by the buzz of my phone. It's a text from Rick, informing me that the training for the rest of the day is canceled due to the worsening weather. I glance out the window, where the snow is falling in thick, heavy sheets, blanketing the world in white.
"Someone should definitely stay with him," she says, glancing towards the door that leads to Dom's room. "Given his condition and this storm, it's the best call."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then find myself blurting out, "I'll stay." The words tumble out more quickly than I intend, and I rush to justify them. "I mean, I'm his fiancée. It makes sense, right?"
The medic gives me a knowing look, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Of course, it does," she replies, her tone gentle but with an undercurrent of amusement. "Just make sure he rests and takes it easy. I've left some pain medication and instructions, along with some crutches—but make sure he stays in bed as much as possible.”
