Page 33 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

I can’t believe I’m doing this—that we’re doing this.

That he wants to be part of this.

“Ryan Hoffman?” The doctor looks up from an iPad, and holy hell!

I am shook—the doctor is such a hottie! His white shirt strains against broad shoulders, his face the kind of handsomeness that’s rugged and a touch lived in, while his dark hair has a little salt and pepper around the temples.

He quirks a brow, and I begin to wonder if I have crumbs on my face.

I just ate crackers. With jam. The sweet-salty combination was just . ..

I realize I’m just standing here. Like a dummy.

“Yes. Yep, that’s me. And this is Matt, my ...” I half turn toward him at the same moment I run out of words. My pretend escort turned real mogul turned ultimate surprise? My one-night stand baby daddy?

“The father,” Matt says, linking his fingers between mine. He gives them a reassuring (or forgiving) squeeze. And if the doctor is handsome, then I don’t rightly know what Matt is. Handsome plus?

“Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says, his tone matter of fact. “Take a seat.” He casually indicates a pair of leather chairs on the other side of his huge desk.

The room’s proportions are oversize, the accents understated Georgian splendor.

An original marble fireplace, crown moldings, and window shutters, contrasted by the high-end spa feel.

We’re at some fancy-assed obstetrics clinic on Harley Street, the place in London world renowned for medical excellence.

Matt suggested he arrange the appointment, but I argued there was no point, given that I wouldn’t have a visa or medical insurance for many more days.

The reality was more that I refused to give Theta the satisfaction of seeing charges for prenatal anything .

No need for them to congratulate themselves more on their decision.

But Matt was adamant we should be reassured that all is as it should be.

I assumed it was more that he needed to be sure I was telling the truth.

At least until he said something that blew those thoughts right out of my head.

“You’re carrying our child.” He reached for my hand, taking it between his own. “I can’t help you do that physically, but I would be honored if you could try to let me shoulder some of the responsibility in the ways I can.”

I couldn’t argue, thanks to the emotional lump that filled my throat. My God, tears are bad enough, but I detest feeling like a vessel of seething emotions. I can only hope this is a short-lived symptom of this pregnancy. A temporary madness that won’t last the full nine months.

Of course, the practical side of me wonders exactly what kind of help Matt will be to me when I’m back in the States. What kind of father, even. But I owe him this much. So two days later, here we are.

We take our seats as Dr. Hottie—I mean, Dr. Travers—leans back in his chair.

“Thanks for fitting us in,” Matt begins, all business himself. “We appreciate it.”

“Yes, so much,” I agree, shooting the hot doc a bright smile. We’re in this together, Matt and I. Parents-to-be, not together, but civil all the same.

In the daily course of my job, my former job, I made decisions involving huge chunks of wealth, and I have a pretty great track record.

Some might attribute my success to historical data or trends, some to the availability of highly technical mathematical modeling.

Others might say it’s a learned knowledge.

Or nothing but luck—the way the wind blows, how far Mercury is in retrograde, or how many roosters I sacrificed on my altar that morning.

Seriously, I was asked that on the trading floor once.

But the truth is, much of my success is down to an innate gut judgment system.

I know intrinsically when and how to trade.

Where and with whom. And when to hedge. It’s probably a kind of sixth sense developed during my childhood.

Knowing when to be present and when to be invisible saved me a lot of stress and whuppings.

It maybe even saved my life once or twice.

So when I stared at the pee stick test three days ago and read the little proclamation of “ Pregnant ,” despite the shock, deep down, I knew I’d be going through with this.

It wasn’t a decision exactly, because there was little rational thought involved.

It was just something I recognized deep inside.

The right path, I guess. My life was altering, my body was preparing to become a mother, and that was that.

What I didn’t factor into this new future was Matt’s involvement. I didn’t give him much of a thought. And when I did spare him a little brain space, I just assumed I wouldn’t be able to get out of the country fast enough for him. In other words, his reaction has been unexpected. To say the least.

“It’s my pleasure.” Hot Doc Travers smiles widely as I play back my words, wondering if I’ve spilled all that, rather than keeping it all at a cerebral level. “Really,” he adds. “An extra hour in the office means I miss my youngest’s piano lesson.”

A relieved chuckle bursts out of me, though I turn it into a cough delivered to my fist.

“It’s bad enough listening to him plink-plonking on the thing,” he says, his fingers drumming the air above his desk, “but the bloody dog has to join in, howling along. The place is like a madhouse,” he says with the slightest hint of a Scots accent.

“Aye, well. Parenthood is the best kind of madness. Something you’ll learn for yourselves in due course.

Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He picks up a pair of dark-framed glasses and, slipping them on, adds two more attractive points to his tally.

“So. Ryan, how are you feeling?” he asks, reaching for the iPad again.

“I’m pretty sure I feel pregnant. And according to the home test I did a couple of days ago, I am.”

“Then pregnant you are.”

“For sure? Don’t I need a blood test or something to confirm it?” I could’ve been making it all up. Should I have brought the pee stick?

“Well, there’s a chance that you might feel like a bit of a pincushion by the time we’re through. But no, home tests are very accurate these days. You’re in the right place.”

“Oh, right. Well, I guess I’m pregnant,” I say, glancing Matt’s way, who slides me the kind of look that makes my heart go pitter-pat.

“So you’re thirty-five years and one month?” The doc glances at the tablet again.

“Yep. Yes, the nineteenth.”

“It was your birthday last month?” Matt glances my way again. “Sorry I missed it,” he adds quietly.

“You weren’t to know.” Oh, my Lord. This is grade A awkward, especially as I glance back to the doctor to find him looking at us over the rim of his glasses. Thankfully, he’s too professional to comment. “And that makes me a geriatric mom-to-be.”

Next to me, Matt scoffs.

“That’s a thing,” I say, my eyes sliding his way. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“It’s nothing we’ll worry about just now,” puts in the doc. “Looking ahead, I typically work out of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. I assume you were told that at the time of booking?”

“Yes, the receptionist did mention it,” Matt answers.

“But this is just kind of a preliminary ... appointment,” I put in, landing on the right word. “I’m going back to the US soon.” Very soon. Monday, in fact.

“Right,” Dr. Hottie says, sliding Matt a look that appears more than a little judgy.

“We haven’t sorted out the finer details,” I add, coming to his defense. “This is all very new. We’re still trying to get our heads around how everything will ...” My words trail off as I flounder, not able to adequately express my thoughts. My expectations. My hopes.

“We’ll make it work,” Matt intones, reaching over to touch my knee. The spot still feels warm as he lifts his hand away.

“Symptoms?” the doc asks next. I appreciate that his manner is very matter of fact.

“I feel as sick as a dog. Nothing has tasted right since I got here, and now I think I know why. And I’ve been sort of tired, but I put that down to work.”

“You’re a hedge fund trader.” His attention flicks to the tablet again.

“Yes.” I filled out the form almost by rote. What I do for a living is part of who I am, even if I’m not doing it right now.

“I imagine that’s quite a stressful career.”

“It can be.” I glance down at my hands in my lap. You’re about to be a mom, no longer a mover or a shaker. I push the tiny fear aside. “Maybe not as stressful as delivering babies.”

“I have the best job in the world,” he says with a genuine-sounding pleasure. “But your symptoms all sound very normal.”

“I’ve been . . . emotional too.”

“Also very normal,” he says, beginning to rifle through his desk drawer, pulling out something that looks like it might be used in a middle school math class to measure angles. “You haven’t included the date of your last period.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “My cycle is kind of erratic.” I feel my brow crease. “I guess I had some spotting a few weeks back that I thought was my period.”

“Right.”

“I mean, I have been under more stress recently.”

The doctor’s gaze slides Matt’s way again.

“Work-related stress,” I qualify.

He drops the angle-calculator thing to the desktop. “Not to worry, we can use the—”

“Would the date of conception help?” Matt offers up suddenly.

“I’m sorry,” I offer the doc before shooting Matt a glare. “That was a little—”

“Inappropriate?” Matt’s tone is unrepentant as he adjusts one of the pleats in his pants. “I’m sure the doctor knows how babies are made.”

“Aye.” Dr. Hottie’s gaze bounces between us, filled with humor.

“That I do. Theoretically and practically,” he adds under his breath as he scribbles something down on a pad.

Honestly? It looks like a delaying tactic as he composes himself, as he tries not to give in to the urge to laugh.

“So the date?” he manages eventually. Without looking up.

“The twenty-fifth of October. Or the twenty-sixth,” Matt adds as his gaze captures mine.

I look away as my cheeks turn nuclear.

“So you’re looking at the eighteenth of July as your due date. We’ll check that out with a scan in a bit.”

“A scan?”

“Aye. If you’d pop into the next room, Jenny will weigh you, take your blood pressure, do your bloods, and so on.”

As though summoned by his words, a nurse, Jenny, I presume, materializes in the room. “This way, my lovely,” she singsongs.

I spring from the chair and make it as far as the door before I realize Matt isn’t behind me. I turn. “Do you want to ...”

He’s on his feet before I can blink.

After having my height measured (no change) and my weight checked (very minimal change), I hop up onto a white padded bed, as instructed, to have my blood pressure taken and a little blood drawn.

“If you could lie down now,” Jenny instructs. “Then lift your top and wiggle your bottom down a bit, my love.”

I came prepared for being poked and prodded, if not scanned, maybe made to wear a paper gown? So I’m dressed in my easy-access pants, which I wriggle over my hips before lifting my shirt, all while pretending Matt isn’t in the room.

“Would you like me to wait outside?” he asks as the pale roll of tissue under my back rustles louder than thunder with each of my unintentional squirms.

“No, don’t be silly.” I’d never win an Oscar, I think as my eyes follow Jenny, who dips out of the room. “This shouldn’t feel so awkward,” I mutter. “What’s a little skin when we’ve literally had our mouths on each other’s genitals.”

“Ready?”

“Shit!” I jump as the doctor enters the room. Matt begins to cough like a man who’s swallowed his own tongue. “Sorry, I mean yes.” Did he hear me say that? If he did, I’ll just die right now. Get it over with. “All ready!”

“Need some water?” He slides the question Matt’s way.

“No.” Composing himself, he thumps his chest with the side of his fist. “But thank you.”

“Pull your shirt up a wee bit more. Perfect.” Dr. Travers tucks more of the tissue into the lowered waistband of my pants, the motion perfunctory and long practiced. “Cold squirt,” he instructs, squeezing cold lube over my stomach.

My eyes meet Matt’s again as the doc lifts a wand that’s a lot like my old Hitachi, er, massager. Yeah, let’s go with that. From the bottom of the bed, Matt’s brow quirks questioningly. Teasingly. I bite back a snicker.

The lights dip, and the wand is applied in a less fun way than my Hitachi, thank the Lord. There’s something soothing about the dimly lit room, until—

“Oh!”

“There we go,” the doctor murmurs.

An ache instantly creeps up the back of my throat, my whole being focused on the whoosh-whoosh-whooshing and the almost ethereal image on the screen. “Oh.” I suddenly find my hand in Matt’s and look up to find him staring down at me.

“Nice and strong,” Dr. Travers murmurs from somewhere outside our bubble. Me looking at Matt, Matt looking at me, our baby’s heartbeat filling the space between us.

“Tell me something,” I find myself whispering.

Matt smiles, his eyes turning glossy. “This is so fucking amazing.”