Dangerous question. I stilled. “I—?”
“Come on, now. Don’t front with me. Are you in love with him?”
Not the best question to ask a woman holding a pregnancy test. Traditionally, the answer would be of course! Other acceptable responses included Oh, Fuck! and When did that happen?
Not, I might be feeling something other than rage for the man who caused me to piss on a piece of plastic.
The indicator was ready.
“Azariah, I’ll text you later.”
The call ended. I knew what the test would say before I read it.
I took a breath and turned it over.
Pregnant.
And now was the appropriate time for a freak-out of epic proportions. The type of freak-out that began with confetti cannons shooting unused condoms and ended with banners reading What Did You Think Would Happen.
Of course I was pregnant.
At the time, rolling with Zach on the floor of the library was one of the most wild and uncontrolled nights of my life. It was passionate. It was romantic.
And Zach was exactly the type of super-strong, he-man, rough-and-tumble cowboy who would be super fertile. Able to jump tall buildings in a single bound and overcome every advancement of modern medicine just to get his girl.
Here I thought the rug burn on my knees would be the mistake of the night.
Nope.
Mega wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
I sighed and held my head in my hands. Then I grimaced, threw the stick down, and washed my face.
This wasn’t good.
Pregnant.
Holy shit.
What was I supposed to do now?
I asked myself that question in a fancy powder rooms with imported tile, marble vanity, and beautiful fixtures. The bathroom was so big I could deliver, raise, and lose a baby in the room.
The worse part was that I freaked out in only one of the extravagant bathrooms in the mansion. Hell, I had two closets larger than my room in Momma’s apartment. The garage even dwarfed my old apartment. I could fill the estate with hundreds of babies and still have space left over.
I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
My chest tightened. My hands trembled, but I swallowed a quick sob.
It wasn’t the room that scared me. Or the money. Or trying to take care of it. Him? Her?
It was Zach.
I could handle the heartache of him deploying, heading back into combat, leaving me for good, but what would it do to an innocent baby? I remembered what it was like growing up without a father.
I hated the thought of anyone else—especially my own baby—feeling the same.
“Figures.” I pitched everything in the garbage and covered it with two dozen Kleenex. I considered flushing the test, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. It was a plastic stick, not an unfortunate goldfish. “Now what?”
The door slammed.
Oh, shit. That was what.
Zach.
Well…he was the one person who probably also deserved to hear the news. Generally fathers liked to know they were fathers. Most of them. The good ones, at least. Not that I knew any great fathers, but I really, really thought Zach might have turned into one.
If he even wanted to be a father.
If he hadn’t already pledged to return to his overseas missions. Dangerous missions. He nearly died on a battlefield only a year ago. My stomach lurched, but this fear tasted different than my usual nausea. Distance wasn’t the only problem that would separate my baby from her father.
Zach could get hurt.
He could die.
That was a little too much to take in right now, especially when most of my insides were trying to heave upwards and escape. Twenty-one years old, and I was pregnant.
The revelation knocked me on my ass and saw fit to keep me there. How the hell was I supposed to tell Zach if I hadn’t even come close to processing it yet?
I needed some time to think. The house was big enough for me to hide in. I’d find a cozy place for the afternoon, make some tea, and I’d…figure it all out. Child-rearing 101 for the woman who just flunked out of college.
Oh, that didn’t help the stress.
I snuck out of the bathroom too slowly. Zach rounded the corner as the door creaked. Thirty-thousand square feet and not a single can of WD-40 for the hinges.
“Hey,” he said.
My shock turned to annoyance. For days he had been completely and totally absent—rushing around doing God-knows-what to get everything ready for his deployment. I called, texted, even made a couple dinners with extra servings for when he got back.
Apparently Zach was super-fertile but not super-considerate.
“Where have you been?” My voice edged a little too harsh.
I inwardly groaned. My anxiety released in a bitchy herald. I didn’t want to start an argument. I took a breath. “I’ve been worried.”
Zach shrugged. “Had something to take care of. I’ve got a headache. I’m going to lay down.”