Have you ever passed out in public and thought you were possessed right away?
Only me? Cool.
When it occurred, I was in the middle of my shift at Café Nib. After taking an order for a caramel oat milk latte with extra foam, I found myself on the floor, staring at the fluorescent lights and wondering if I was unconscious, having a bad dream, or simply lacking iron.
None of the above, it seems.
The emergency room doctor paused dramatically, saying, "Ma'am, you're dehydrated, low on nutrients, and—"congratulations… you're pregnant." The man could really teach stagecraft.
expecting a child.
It was a chilly slap of a word.
"I am... What am I now?
With a smile that was far too happy for someone to break the news of nuclear war to an unwary woman who still had croissant crumbs in her bra, he repeated, "Pregnant."
With my hair frizzed out from the heat and embarrassment, I sat on the slender hospital bed in my café apron, trying to breathe normally. But I had this strange slideshow going on in my head.
The Gala. Ethan. The hotel room. His palms. Like a napkin left on the floor, my dress crumpled.
Oh. My God.
Ethan Blackwood.
It was his, of course. For a longer period of time than I wanted to acknowledge, my romantic life had been a barren wasteland.
"Are you certain?" I croaked. "You mean, are you absolutely certain? Perhaps I'm just pregnant with food. I eat bread a lot.
The nurse gave me a glass-splitting side-eye.
I let out a breath.
not pregnant with food.
pregnant with a child.
I moved my hands to my stomach. For now, flat. Not for long, though.
I wasn't prepared. I had no idea how to raise a child, was broke, barely making ends meet, and had a closet full of dresses I had bought on the spur of the moment.
What about Ethan?
Ethan Blackwood was the type of man who most likely purchased yachts with no buyer's remorse, much like I do with cereal. He was wealthy, merciless, and most definitely not the type to pull a surprise. or infants. Or me—once more.
Panic was my first reaction.
My second? Run.
Because my life, which is already a sitcom, could suddenly become a season finale complete with fireworks, lawsuits, and a media circus if Ethan Blackwood finds out.
However, my hand instinctively rested on my belly once more as I emerged from the hospital into the glaring sun.
Small, novel, and unexpected.
mine.
I had no idea what on earth I was going to do.
However, I was certain of one thing.
Rule #4: If you're not prepared for a nine-month sequel, don't sleep with a billionaire.
It's too late now.