Page 52 of Full Out Fiend

“She has a prenatal appointment and an ultrasound this week,” I remember. “I’m going with her. We should know then whether there’s one heartbeat or two.”

“You’re gonna go all in with this, aren’t you?” Dempsey groans. “Our lives are about to become all baby, all the time.”

I don’t bother arguing. My brother knows me better than anyone—he knows I only have one mode. If I am the father of this child, then all our lives are about to get turned upside down. It’s going to be so fucking fun.

“Pace yourself with her, brother. I think she’s great—Maddie really liked her, too. But sharing a kid means whatever happens between you two is going to affect your lives forever. It’s going to affect another life, too.”

His warning is warranted, but also in vain.

I’m already head over heels for Daphne: totally smitten, utterly mesmerized, and completely gone for this girl.

Chapter 30

Daphne

Havingafullclientelewith a steady waitlist has always been my dream—until now, when I have to shuffle clients and reschedule people to make it to the only doctor’s appointment slot available that’s long enough for an ultrasound and prenatal visit.

I worked for two hours this morning, and after my appointment, I’ll go back and work until eight tonight. It’s less than ideal, but without more notice, my schedule has little flexibility. It was hard enough explaining to our receptionist Bobbi why I needed to move clients today without flat-out telling her what was going on. It’s going to be near-impossible to keep this pregnancy secret from the girls at work much longer.

I blow out a long breath as I pull in next to a huge silver SUV. Fielding hops out of the driver’s side as soon as I park.

Of course he’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s thrilled to be here, and I can’t help but smile, too—his enthusiasm is contagious. He’s been nothing but wildly supportive, albeit a little overbearing, over the last few days. We’ve been texting nonstop. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not feel my phone buzzing over and over again in the middle of doing a bikini wax.

He’s around my car and opening my door before I’ve unbuckled, then he’s offering his hand to me.

“Hi,” I greet him while I let him help me out. “Are you excited?”

“You have no idea.” I don’t doubt it. He’s grinning so wide there’s no way his face doesn’t hurt.

Once I get checked in, I’m asked to “leave a sample” in the bathroom, then we sit among the other women and couples in the waiting room. I’ve barely had more than two sips of coffee today—my stomach just can’t handle the acidity right now—but my knees are bouncing like crazy.

“This is going to be awesome,” Fielding murmurs under his breath, brushing one of his large, tan hands down my trembling thigh. “I’m so grateful you asked me to be here.”

His words calm me enough to stop fidgeting. That, or the sight of his hand and all those arm veins brushing up and down my thigh has done the trick. Without overthinking it, I smooth my hand over my pant leg, eventually letting it rest next to his. He doesn’t hesitate to clasp it, interlace our fingers, and bring our hands to his lips.

“Wait,” he whispers suddenly. “You washed your hands after leaving that sample, right?”

I snort—not my most lady-like move, I know, but he’s ridiculous. He somehow always knows what to say to lighten the mood. I bump his rock-solid shoulder with mine, and I’m still laughing when a nurse calls us back.

After confirming my name and birthday, she asks me to get on the scale.

I cringe and look at Fielding. “Please don’t look,” I beg.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he murmurs, turning around to give me and the scale the privacy I asked for. Good thing, too. This doctor’s office scale is rude as hell—it claims I weigh four pounds more than the one I have at home. Nothing about my body has visibly changed yet, but that hasn’t stopped me from stepping on the scale each morning out of curiosity.

“Great. Have a seat. I’ll take your blood pressure before we head back to imaging.”

I cross my ankles and offer my arm, then try to calm my bouncing leg as the cuff tightens.

“Hmm… oh dear,” the nurse mutters. “It’s 142/85. Perhaps we’ll try again…”

Next thing I know, Fielding is dropping into a crouch in front of me and resting his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. “Give us one minute, please,” he tells the nurse.

Surprisingly, she nods without hesitation.

“Hi,” he murmurs, now singularly focused on me.

“What?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”