Page 3 of Beneath His Vow (Knocked Up and Locked Down #1)

THREE

LEXI

For the next week, I feel like I’m walking through molasses. I’m exhausted down to my bones. There’s a lingering feeling that I’m coming down with something that never seems to materialize.

At work, I try to avoid James as much as possible. He pulls me up on every minute infraction he thinks I’ve committed. My stress levels are through the roof, because my job is meant to be my slice of normality outside of bikers and overbearing husbands.

It’s ruining my peace.

The only thing that keeps me from losing my mind is Casey.

I’m sitting at the breakfast table in our apartment, my head fuzzy, a slow, unrelenting pulsing behind my eyes. Everything feels off, even the smell of the coffee twists my stomach.

I’m trying to put a brave face on it, because if I don’t, Casey will have me back in bed in a heartbeat and I can’t take time off with James breathing down my neck about every little thing.

But Casey has built a life on reading between the lines, seeing things that other people wouldn’t even notice—especially when it comes to me.

So as soon as he walks into the kitchen, his eyes narrow. He doesn’t ask before he presses a hand to my forehead, as if he expects me to be burning up. “You’re not warm, but you don’t look well.”

I push his hand away weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long week.”

That’s not even a lie—even if the first part is.

“Stay home today.” The order snaps through his words, even though they’re delivered with softness.

“I said I’m fine.” He stares at me like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. “Okay, so I’m not fine, but I can work.”

He crouches down in front of me, and I stare at the President patch on the front of his cut as his hand cups my knee. “Babe. You ain’t fine. You look like fuckin’ roadkill.”

“Who said romance is dead?” I mutter.

His hand moves to my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You’re still beautiful, but you need to rest.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. He always knows how to say the right things, even if those things are said gruffly.

“We have a big project completing today. James is up my ass about it. But, I promise, I’ll take tomorrow off if I still feel bad.” I give him a lopsided smile that feels watery. “See, I can compromise.”

He doesn’t laugh. His face remains hard, his mouth pulled into a tight line. “I don’t give a shit about projects, Lexi. I care that my wife is sitting here looking half-dead, trying to force herself to go into a job I also couldn’t care less about.”

I take his hands in mine, his palms rough and warm, familiar.

“I know,” I say, “but I care. This is my job. I don’t want to lose it.”

“You ain’t gonna lose it taking a day off sick.”

He doesn’t know about James’s campaign of assholery against me. I feel like I’m skating on thin ice, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.

He huffs. “You okay to be on the back of my bike?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure that’s true. We have breakfast together—or rather I have breakfast and he has his usual cup of coffee. It’s strong enough to strip paint. The smell of it has me holding my breath until he’s done.

The ride over to my office block feels like it takes a hundred years. My head is floaty, and halfway there I’m regretting not pushing for him to drive me in the car.

As soon as my helmet is off, he’s scanning my face, concern lining every inch of him.

So I do the only thing I can to distract him.

I fist my fingers into the edges of his cut, pull him to me, and kiss him like this is our last moment together. He sinks into me, letting his tongue find mine, even though we’re standing on a busy street.

I also wish I’d listened to him about taking time off. I am not a good martyr. And for the first hour I’m sitting at my desk, I regret every life choice I’ve ever made that brought me to this moment.

I don’t know why I feel so bad. Is it something I’ve caught from work? From the clubhouse? The latter is a petri dish of germs, so it wouldn’t surprise me if I’ve gotten something off one of the guys.

By mid-morning, I’ve pulled up my app and made an emergency appointment with my physician at lunchtime. I’m hoping she has drugs that will fix this.

I’m just closing my phone down when I feel him behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know James is at my back, but I do anyway. He’s giving me that look, the one he’s been giving me all week right before he tears me down.

“We’re giving the client presentation after lunch. I hope you’re ready.”

My smile is thin. “Of course. This isn’t the first presentation I’ve delivered.”

I don’t smooth the challenge in my words. Fuck him. He acts like I’m some idiot without a clue.

His eyes drift to my desk. “Oh, is that the Hoffman report?”

He leans over to grab it, but as he does, his hand brushes along my shoulder. It’s subtle, even as it’s not, especially when he lingers on my skin just a beat longer than is appropriate.

It feels like even the blood in my veins crawls at his touch. And I don’t breathe until he moves back, clutching the folder in his hand. “I wouldn’t mind having a look at this before we sit down for the call. Thanks, Alexis.”

I grit my teeth. “Of course, but I prefer being called Lexi.”

His eyes are bright in a way that feels threatening, even though he is not doing anything. Everything about this man just pisses me off.

“Sorry. I forget. Your real name is so pretty. I don’t understand why you don’t use it.”

There it is again. A comment wrapped in silk even though the paper covering it is barbed. My skin itches. “Lexi is fine.”

“I’ll see you in the boardroom later,” he says before he skulks off to his corner of the floor.

I sink down into my chair, the headache blooming behind my eyes growing stronger. My skin feels wrong where he touched me.

Tasha pops her head around the side of my cubicle. “He is such a dick,” she hisses. “I’m starting to think he’s calling you that to rile you.”

I rub my gritty eyes. I would give anything to be back in bed right now. “He’s just a small man with a small personality.”

She studies me. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. Just a rough night and… Now a rough day.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the way her brow inches slightly up her forehead, but she also doesn’t call me on it, which I appreciate.

As soon as it hits 1 PM, I’m out of my chair, shrugging into my jacket as I move toward the elevator.

My appointment is at 1:15 PM, which means I’m going to be cutting it close to get there.

My legs are already tired, my body drained, but somehow I push through and arrive at the clinic winded with two minutes to spare.

Then they make me wait an additional five minutes on top of that before my name is called. I’m sitting on the edge of the table, my legs swinging slightly when Dr. Singh walks in. She’s been my physician for the last four years, and so her brows come together when she sees me.

“You look terrible. You’re not feeling well?”

She immediately grabs the thermometer out of the drawer, pressing it against my forehead until it beeps.

“I’m not just being dramatic when I say this, Dr. Singh, but I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat back out.”

She makes a low rumbling sound in the back of her throat, swapping the thermometer out for a blood pressure cuff. “Symptoms?”

I snort. “Where do you want me to start? Nausea, tiredness—I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. I nearly fell asleep yesterday at my desk, which, if you knew my boss, would be a really bad idea.”

The cuff tightens around my bicep, squeezing the bone to the point of pain.

“Any headaches? Have you actually been sick? How’s your appetite?”

“Yeah to headaches. And no. I haven’t thrown up, although I’ve wanted to. And my appetite is trash.” I stare at the machine as the numbers climb. “Do you think it’s a virus?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She turns to look at computer, scanning through my notes. “You had a Mirena fitted three years ago… You’ve not had that taken out, have you?”

“Nope,” I pop the P.

“Right.” She smiles. “Let’s get a urine sample to start, and then look at bloods after that. Find out what is going on.”

She hands me a pot with a smile and I slide off the table to use the adjacent bathroom. As I’m peeing, all I can think is Casey is going to go ballistic when he finds out I came to the doctor and didn’t tell him. But what exactly am I going to tell him? I don’t know anything yet.

I return to the room, handing over my pee like it’s contraband, and Dr. Singh carries it to the counter at the back of the room.

I slide back onto the table, the paper crinkling beneath me, and check the time. If I’m late back, James will set fire to my desk.

Dr. Singh makes a sound on the back of her throat that has me turning in her direction. “Did it show something?”

She washes her hands, and her smile is soft as she comes back to me. That eases some of the tension in my chest. She wouldn’t smile if I was dying, right?

“Well, it’s not a virus.” She takes a seat on the stool next to the table, clutching the stethoscope around her neck.

“It’s not? So what is it?”

“Well,” Dr. Singh smiles, “you’re… pregnant.”

What. The. Fuck.