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Chapter Twenty-Seven

C arys

Thunder shakes the house as rain pelts the glass. Tree limbs sway outside Gannon’s bedroom window. It’s been a day of storms across Tennessee.

It’s the perfect day to stay in bed and read.

I set Gannon’s copy of Love Hurts next to me, my heart breaking over Deacon and Frankie’s story. It’s so beautiful, so tragic, and so utterly intoxicating. It’s the kind of love every girl dreams about finding for herself.

My gaze flutters to the doorway.

The kind of love that I hope I’ve found for myself.

“Do you want a drink?” Gannon shouts from downstairs.

“No. I’m good.”

“I’ll be up in a minute. Just going to fire off a couple more emails.”

“I’m cuddled up in here with your book. Take your time.”

His footsteps fall fainter until they’re no longer audible.

My stomach churns from the grilled cheese Gannon made me a few hours ago.

Most of my clients are sick with influenza, and one apparently shared it with me.

Gannon acts like I’m coming down with something life-threatening and has babied me since I got home from work yesterday.

He was supposed to go into the office for a Saturday teleconference this morning but called it off to stay home with me.

He's been in super protective mode since the falling out at Kent’s party, going out of his way to ensure I’m pampered. I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ever go back to normal Gannon protective mode.

If not, I’m not mad about it.

I am mad that Aurora reached out to me the next day and apologized for Kent’s behavior.

His behavior had no bearing on her, and it’s not her responsibility to make excuses for her husband’s assholery.

I didn’t respond because the only response I could come up with was that good women need to stop making excuses for bad men.

But that wouldn’t have helped anything, and I really just need this to be behind me.

Because there’s so much goodness ahead.

My phone buzzes repeatedly from somewhere under the pillows. By the time I find it, it’s stopped. Tate’s name is on the screen with a list of texts, none of which I have the strength to read … or mediate. When he sends this many messages at once, photos are involved.

“Not now, Tate,” I say, yawning. “Find someone else to judge your shirtless pictures. I’m retired.”

Before I put my phone down, I notice that a handful of new emails has hit my inbox.

“Let’s see what this is about,” I say, opening the app. “Maybe my plant order has shipped for Gannon’s office.”

I scroll through the emails, most of them junk and none of them about my order. I’m about to close out of the app when I notice two messages at the bottom of the list. One is from the life insurance company, and the other from the laboratory.

“Oh,” I say, sitting up. “Let’s see what this says.”

I choose the company’s email first, hoping it condenses the results. Scanning a list of terms I don’t understand to decide whether it’s within range sounds like a headache—especially when it’ll wind up with me online and convinced that I have some rare form of cancer or Ebola.

“There we go,” I say, clicking the link. A letter populates, and it is addressed to me.

MS JOHNSON, your application requires some additional information. Please choose START to begin your Online Personal History Interview.

“ Okay ,” I say, confused. “I filled everything out. What did I forget?”

I click the start button, as requested. It prompts me to enter the last four digits of my social security number, so I do that. Finally, a screen loads.

MS JOHNSON,

Our records indicate that you did not disclose a pregnancy when applying for life insurance.

This is considered a non-disclosure, and while pregnancy alone cannot disqualify you from coverage, it is a health condition that needs to be reported to the insurance company.

Please take the following survey to provide additional information within 10 days.

A cold chill races down my spine.

“ What ?” I stare at the screen, my stomach crashing to my knees. “That’s … that can’t be right.”

My chest squeezes so tight it’s hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. This. Can’t. Be. Happening.

I hop off the bed, my adrenaline too high to sit still, and reread the message. My finger shakes as I trace the words to keep from scanning it. I read every single word, letting them sink in.

Oh.

My.

God.

I’m going to puke.

This can’t be true. There’s no way. Well, there’s technically a way, but it’s impossible.

I am not pregnant!

“The letter is just wrong,” I say, on the verge of panicking. “I’ll look at the lab results and determine what went wrong. It’ll make sense in a minute. It’s going to be fine.”

I click back to my email, poking at the laboratory results three times before it finally opens.

There is a list of things, most of which I don’t understand, and all show a normal range from what I can gather.

See? It’s fine.

I flip to the final page, relief settling on my shoulders. Nothing looks wrong. I actually look pretty damn healthy.

The name of the laboratory is printed across the top, along with the name of the pregnancy test. My name, age, sex, and an assigned number are below that.

There are random letters, numbers, and a chart that I suppose makes sense to medical professionals.

Nothing is alarming until I scan the middle of the page and see the word in all red caps: POSITIVE.

My world stops spinning.

I drop my phone and sink to the floor, my back dragging down the side of the bed. My hands cover my mouth as I try not to hyperventilate.

You have to breathe, Carys.

“I’m pregnant,” I say, barely getting the words out. “Oh my God.”

My body trembles as my mind expands, working overtime in an attempt to think this through. But just as I take a breath, Gannon’s footfalls echo from the stairs.

I have to tell Gannon.

My face flushes as I recall our prior conversation about pregnancy.

“Tatum told me she was pregnant. I was stunned. Horrified at first, if I’m being honest.

“When you build something without a foundation, it’s bound to fall.

“If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, we would never have married.”

He’s going to hate me. He’s going to hate me just like he hated her.

What if he thinks I did this on purpose—like I’m another Tatum and using this to lock him in?

I gag, clasping my palm over my mouth to catch the vomit if it comes up.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I can’t figure this out and have him angry with me.” I whimper, looking at the ceiling. “Please, God, don’t let Gannon be mad at me.”

Panic spreads slowly through my veins at the thought of losing him.

“I’m going to lose the best thing that ever happened to me,” I say, sniffling back tears.

I spent my whole adult life terrified of having children because I didn’t want to be forever attached to a man. I didn’t want to give someone that much of me. Now, I’m terrified of losing a man who I would give my body and soul to in a moment.

I just wish I would’ve been strong enough to admit this earlier. Twenty-four hours ago would’ve been great. If I tell him that now, he’ll think I’m only saying it because of the baby.

The baby.

I think I’m going to faint.

“This is so unfair,” I say, dipping my head between my knees and crying. The tears are hot and flow like rivers down my cheeks. I’d give anything to have the floor open up and swallow me whole.

“Hey,” Gannon says, making me jump. My face snaps to his. “What’s going on?”

He’s standing in sweatpants with bare feet and no shirt, his hair a mess from lying around in bed with me most of the day. His eyes search mine for clues. The only clue I can give him is that I’m about to wreck our worlds.

“I didn’t do this on purpose,” I say, struggling to get the words out through the emotion clogging my throat. “Please believe me.”

“You didn’t do what on purpose?”

He drops to the floor, reaching for me to pull me onto his lap. I fight against it, an abnormal reaction that he picks up on immediately. He pulls his hands away with a wary look on his handsome face.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” he says calmly.

A full-body shiver shakes my body. I think I’m in shock .

I don’t know how to do this, and I’d give anything not to have to do it at all. But there’s no way to avoid it. He deserves to know. This will affect him, too.

“Gannon …” I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leaking through my lashes. “I’m pregnant.”

I wince, bracing myself for an outburst. For a yelp. For a loud what the fuck .

He stiffens beside me, but that’s it.

“I just got a letter from the lab that did my blood work,” I say, peeling my eyes open. “It says I didn’t disclose my pregnancy. I think it says I’m three weeks pregnant, but I’m not a doctor, and quite frankly, I think I’m in shock.”

“ Wow .”

“Gannon, please know I didn’t do this on purpose. I’m not trying to trap you or put you in any position. I’m … stunned. I had no idea. And I guess it could be wrong, I don’t know. But I’m just telling you what it said because …” I’m scared .

His chest rises and falls with deep, measured breaths. He rolls his head around his neck as if he’s struggling to work this out in his head.

“Before we get too far into this, I have a question,” he says, his voice calm.

“What?”

He turns slowly to face me. “I mean this with all the respect in the world. And no matter what the answer is, I won’t judge you, and I’ll help you figure this out. Okay?”

I nod.

“Is it mine? I’m not implying anything, but I don’t want to assume anything. We’ve never discussed being monogamous, and although I will tell you right now that I have only been with you, I can’t assume you feel or have felt the same way.”

The hope in his eyes slices through me like a knife.

“Yes, of course, it’s yours,” I say through the tears clouding my vision. “There’s been no one else.” In every aspect, honestly.

His eyes flick to my stomach, and his features soften. A slow, shy grin kisses his lips.