Annie's Song(7)

Crouching over the toilet, she threw up, dry heaves cramping her muscles. Strong hands closed over her shoulders, held her until she found control of her body. Gasping, she stretched out on the floor, cold from the tiles seeping through her pajamas, soothing her overheated skin. Eric leaned over her, pushed tangled curls off her cheek.

“Not fish this time,” he said. She shook her head, miserable. “I’m going to have the concierge find a doctor—”

“No,” she whispered, flinching at her raw voice. “Let me just rest. If it’s the flu, I’ll know in a few hours—”

“And if it’s not? I won’t take the chance, Annie.”

“Please.” She hated doctors—hated the thought of them, ever since a cold, clinical surgeon informed her that her parents were dead, in a tone that could have been ordering takeout, for all its concern. “If I’m not better by tonight, I’ll see a doctor. You go—don’t miss the bus tour because of me.”

Eric helped her up, guided her to the bed and helped her settle, tucking her in like a child. “I’ll have the front desk send up some medicine. Don’t you leave this room. That’s not negotiable. I’m not taking the bus tour without you, but I will leave for a while, to let you get some sleep.” His lips brushed her forehead. “You’re not feverish.” He stood, relief on his face. Pushing one hand through his sun streaked hair, his voice moved into lecture mode. “Drink fluids, take your medicine, and stay in bed, Annie. You need to rest.”

“Aye, captain.”

He flashed a smile, brushed a kiss over her cheek, and left her alone.

She curled up on her side, her stomach aching and hollow. Just the thought of food made her nauseous. Though she thought she could manage a little water. The pretty crystal carafe on the nightstand was in easy reach. Carefully, she sat, poured half a glass of water and took an experimental sip. It stayed down, felt good on her raw throat.

Until these bouts of nausea, she’d been fine. Better than fine, with two weeks of nothing but Eric and the day’s plans to ponder over, to enjoy. It felt like it had been years since she had such a long stretch of drama-free time. Not that she was complaining—it was an exhilarating way to live. And exhausting.

She would have to recharge like this every once in a while, because she didn’t plan on missing out on any of Claire’s adventures—even if it was the wild ride of raising a teenage boy who had once been a rogue angel.

Now if she could just shake this bug, she and Eric could—

She stilled as a horrible thought burned into her mind.

No . . . God, no—I can’t be . . .

Mentally, her throat dry, she counted back the days, the weeks to her last period. She was never regular, so missing a month wasn’t cause for a flaming panic party. It had been—God, she couldn’t remember.

“Bring on the panic party,” she whispered.

Climbing out of bed, she dressed as fast as she could, praying she wouldn’t run into Eric outside. She would head away from the high street, hit the chemist on the next street over, and slink back here. If he beat her back, she’d just lock herself in the bathroom until she knew.

Once the idea that she could be pregnant took hold, it burned out every other thought. She didn’t even remember her path to the chemist, and lost all awareness of her surroundings. Until she stood in front of the shelf, staring at the assortment of pregnancy tests.

It was too soon. She wasn’t ready—God, was Eric ready? She didn’t even know if she had what it took to be a mother.

Please, I can’t be—not yet—

Cutting off the pointless repetition, she grabbed three different tests and stood in line to check out, trying to look as unconcerned as possible. And she managed, until she set them on the counter, and the cashier started to gush.

“You’ll be knowing the truth in just minutes with these—quality tests.” Winking, she rang them up, then handed over the bag that thankfully concealed them. “Take yourself back to the mister, let him share the joy. The best to both of you, lass.”

The woman’s final words, spoken with such warmth, eased Annie’s desire to crawl quietly out of the store. More than every step she’d taken, every wild denial that tried to blast out the thought, this stranger’s quiet blessing drove home the truth she already knew.

She left the store, took in a deep breath, and started back toward the hotel. Every detail, from the brightly painted storefronts, to the people hustling around her, was sharp, clear, and so full of life. She wanted to cry, to marvel, to be in awe of the possibility that she, Annie Sullivan, could be like the woman walking along the sidewalk, holding the hand of a beautiful little girl, smiling at her bright chatter.