Page 45 of Pucking One Night Stand

I rip it open and pull out the cardboard box. It’s lighter than it should be. I open the box and read the folded-up instructions, then grab the test like it’s a cursed object.

Bathroom. Bright lights. No overthinking now. Just pee.

I do what I need to do. Wash my hands like a surgeon prepping for something dire. And then I walk back to the bed and set the stick down on the duvet like it might explode.

Tick. Tock.

I stare at it like my life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

Knock-knock.

Not now!

“Five minutes!” Dad’s voice from the hallway. “I told you I'm starving!”

“Just dressing!” I call back, never taking my eyes off the damn plastic thing in front of me.

Tick. Tock.

“Oh, come on, for God’s sake,” I hiss. Like maybe my rage will speed up molecular reactions or something.

Then I see it.

I don’t even pick it up at first. Just lean closer, like my brain needs confirmation.

Two lines. Blue. Not faint. Not ambiguous. Bold. Undeniable. Two fucking clear as day blue lines.

I reach for it with a trembling hand, pick it up, and bring it closer like maybe I can bargain with it.

“Shit! Fuck!” I gasp as my stomach flips. “I’m… I’m pregnant,” it doesn’t even sound real coming out of my mouth.

I grip the test harder, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.

“Shit, shit, shit—fuck!”

Chapter seven

Blake

Last night I didn't get a great night's sleep thinking, or more like worrying, about this morning’s press conference.

So, here I am. It's an hour and a half before we start, and the conference hall’s already humming with low chatter and activity, even with the mics off. The podium’s up front, and it looks about as fun as a root canal.

Calam’s fiddling with his camera settings at the side of the room, Mikey’s untangling or arguing with some cables, and Tarquin and Suzanna are circling the press perimeter, making sure everything’s running to their standards of PR perfection.

Musa, Gretchen, and Holly are sitting on folding chairs near the media table, red pens in hand, going over my statement like they’re grading a damn term paper. Riley’s hovering near Cassy, nodding along to whatever she’s saying with her usual people-pleasing grin.

Tammy, the makeup artist, dabs something on my forehead. Powder, I think. Smells like oranges. I’m already annoyed.

Cassy glances over and waves her hand. “Okay, he’s good.”

Tammy steps back, giving me a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring.

I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to scratch my face.Okay. Let’s just get this over with.

Cassy’s walking toward me now, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor like she owns the damn building. Which, honestly, she might as well.

As I get up and go behind the podium, she hands me a printout. Her fingers brush mine for half a second, and I hate that I notice.