Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I've managed to establish a routine in Hartland. Every morning, I wake up at six, shower, and have a light breakfast before bundling up for the fifteen-minute walk to Hartland Books. Thornton—my expressionless, intimidating boss who looks like he stepped out of a John Wick movie—barely acknowledges my existence beyond giving me instructions, while his wife is his exact opposite. She's adorable in every way, and she's the only one capable of making her husband appear somewhat human.
Even Wyoming's winters are something I've finally become accustomed to. The only thing I'm left struggling with, however, is the one thing I can never ask for help from.
And it's all about him.
I feel his presence everywhere even when I don't see him. His name is mentioned in my hearing all the time. I catch glimpses of his black truck driving past me, and it takes everything not to cry. I know I asked for this. I know I should be happy. But I'm not.
Hormones, I tell myself desperately. These are just the hormones that are making a mess—
Oh no.
Something hurts.
Badly.
Something feels wrong.
No. No. No.
I clutch at my abdomen as a sharp pain tears through me. I'm alone in the bookstore's back room, cataloging new arrivals, when it hits me like a freight train. I sink to my knees, my hand fumbling for my phone.
With trembling fingers, I dial the number for Hartland's taxi service—a quaint operation with exactly three cars serving the entire town. Thankfully, one arrives within minutes, and he takes one look at my face, and he takes me straight to the local clinic.
Breathe, Cay. Breathe.
The clinic appears through the frosted windows, a simple two-story stone building with a discreet sign.
But as soon as I'm past its doors...
Oh, sheep.
It's the poshest medical facility I've ever seen in my life, and I don't know whether to feel thankful or terrified. The marble floors gleam under soft lighting. The reception area looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel, with plush seating and abstract art adorning the walls.
Will I be forever in debt after being treated here?
This is the one thing I just don't get about Hartland, honestly. It's not the richest town around, but why are all the places here so, so...nice?
A nurse in crisp navy scrubs approaches immediately. "Acacia Greenway, isn't it?"
I just nod, no longer surprised that she knows my name. It's Hartland, and that's just how we roll here.
The staff moves with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, I'm changed into a hospital gown and settled in an examination room that looks more like a luxury spa than a medical facility.
"Dr. Slater will be with you shortly," the nurse—Abby, according to her name tag—informs me with a reassuring smile. "In the meantime, I need to ask you some questions for your chart."
She starts with the basics—name, date of birth, allergies, and current medications. Then come the pregnancy-specific questions.
"When was your last prenatal checkup?"
I swallow hard. "I... I haven't had one yet."
Abby's pen pauses above the clipboard, but her expression remains professionally neutral. "I see. And when did you confirm your pregnancy?"
"About two months ago. I used a home test."
"Any prior pregnancies or miscarriages?"
"No."
"And the father of the baby? Is he involved?"
Shame fills me inside even though I know I have nothing to be ashamed about. I love my baby—-
"I'll take it from here, Abby."
That voice.
My gaze jerks to the doorway, and I see a familiar figure... in an unfamiliar white lab coat.
Ronan is Dr. Slater?
His amber eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, time stands still. He looks different in his professional attire—impossibly more attractive, if that were even possible. The pristine lab coat over a light blue shirt and navy tie. The stethoscope hanging around his neck. The air of quiet authority surrounds him.
Abby steps out, and it's just the two of us.
He takes the clipboard. "You're five months along?"
All I can do is nod. Why is he being so gentle? Doesn't he hate me for lying to him?
"Tell me about the pain you're experiencing."
I tell him everything, my voice jerky. A part of me is still reeling. Ronan knows now. Ronan's a doctor. And Ronan...is so impossible to understand. Why isn't he angry?
Thirty minutes later, and I'm about to die of embarrassment.
Ronan—now my doctor at the moment—has to give me a physical examination. His touch is clinical and impersonal, but my body responds traitorously nonetheless. His fingers probe gently at my abdomen, checking for tenderness, while he listens to the baby's heartbeat with a Doppler.
"Everything sounds normal."
Uh. Yeah. Right. NOT!
"Baby's heartbeat is strong."
So's mine!
Ronan helps me lie back and prepares the ultrasound, his movements efficient. The gel is cold against my skin, but I still feel like I'm about to go up in flames any second.
"This might be a little uncomfortable..."
No kidding.
I'm about to die of embarrassment. I'm so tempted to run away. But as soon as Ronan points to my baby on the screen, everything is forgotten.