Chapter 31

The poking and prodding of a thorough exam are not what’s frustrating the hell out of me. Especially given that it’s so crucial Dr. Shaw be absolutely thorough.

What’s got me on pins and needles is that she’s not the type of physician who nods her head (or shakes it) and mumbles, “Mm-hmm… all right, then… okay, good…” (or “not so good”). She doesn’t utter a word or give anything away. At all.

So I’m hanging by my nails trying to remain calm, which is actually not working, because I can see my vitals on the monitor, and my blood pressure and my pulse are inching upward. Exponentially.

Lavinia, the PA, is with us and she’s the one who’s delivering encouraging words to me in her comforting voice and assuring me, “Just a few minutes more, Bailey.”

She’s also the one who’s blotting the stream of tears running down my cheeks.

“Just breathe,” she quietly says.

I also feel there’s a “these things happen” on the tip of her tongue, but she quashes it. She’s gotten to know me pretty well and understands that I don’t do placation in that manner. If there’s an issue, I want to know about it—head-on.

So she sticks to the basics and I’m grateful for that.

Unfortunately, the suspense drags on and on and on.

Finally—oh, God, finally!—Dr. Shaw is done. She wipes the gel from my stomach and whips off her gloves. Washes and sanitizes her hands.

She inhales deeply—which I fear does not bode well for me. Or the baby.

My once sky-high heart and spirits have already plummeted to my ankles. They really can’t go much farther south.

More tears spill and Lavinia sops them up with extra tissues.

Dr. Shaw turns to me, looking at me for the first time since I’ve arrived. As in my face, not my vagina or my belly or the monitor.

“Oh, Bailey…” She is instantly by my side and that can only mean one thing, right?

“You have bad news,” I murmur in a fractured tone. “Really bad news.”

She takes my hand. Gives me a smile and says, “No. It’s not bad news.”

I glare at her.

“I’m sorry I don’t give commentary when I’m examining a patient unless I have questions for her. What you experienced, however, is quite straightforward.”

“I’m miscarrying.” I literally have to fight the wail, retain some shred of dignity and composure.

“No, Bailey,” she hastily tells me. “You’re not miscarrying. There’s a heartbeat. A strong heartbeat. And no bleeding.” She pauses and then queries, “No more cramping either, right?”

“Only a few quick jabs,” I assure her. “But there was blood. I saw it. Grayson saw it. And Lavinia cleaned it from my legs, it’s on my panties, so—”

“Yes, you did initially have some bleeding. It wasn’t much,” Dr. Shaw affirms. “And this isn’t uncommon. Were you six to twelve days into your pregnancy, the likely culprit would be implantation bleeding—where the egg implants itself in your womb. There are other things that can trigger bleeding, even intercourse.”

“Which I have not had,” I immediately point out. “Nick’s not here.”

“Yes, I know. So I instantly ruled that out. However, I believe you have a minor infection, which we’ll clear up. Then you should be completely fine.”

Completely fine.

Good Lord.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be completely fine.

This is just… So fucking traumatic.

My eyes squeeze shut for several seconds as I simply lie back and tell myself over and over that I’m not miscarrying.

There is no more blood.

There is no more cramping.

I haven’t been rushed off to the ER.

And, truthfully, all feels right with the peanut. My stomach is no longer twisted in knots. I can breathe.

Granted, I’m seriously on the verge of sobbing hysterically, but I tamp that down. For the most part. Tears still leak from my eyes. Which I open.

I stare at Dr. Shaw, who is now wearing an optimistic expression. I have the overwhelming urge to school her in bedside manner and insist she give some indication of what the hell she suspects is or isn’t wrong with me when she’s down there.

On the flipside, I can understand that she does not want to present false hope—or terrify me when she has nothing conclusive yet to divulge.

But she does now and she walks me through the criticality of the ultrasound and the heartbeat and I’m one-thousand percent relieved to not only have her and Lavinia at my beck and call, but I’m also grateful this equipment is set up in a room in the guesthouse, so close to where I reside. I owe that ingenuity and foresight to Nick.

And, oh, holy hell.

I gasp.

Dr. Shaw’s brows shoot up and her diatribe cuts off. “What is it, Bailey?”

She thinks I’m in pain again.

In some ways… I am.

“You’re going to tell Nick about this!” I blurt.

Now her gaze narrows on me. “Yes, of course. It’s pertinent information. Relative to the baby. You know I’m obligated to—”

“I know, except… I should be the one to tell him.”

Yes, this is a severe deviation from my most recent contention that all pregnancy info should be funneled to him via Dr. Shaw, but…

Well.

After last night’s call and considering how alarming this was… I think I should be the one to enlighten him. Naturally, I’ll recommend he follow-up with Dr. Shaw to alleviate any concerns or anxiety. But I can at least share with him that this mishap is nowhere near the horrific ordeal I’d instantly thought it was.

And, Jesus… That reminds me that Grayson is left hanging. He helped me get here, but then stepped outside. He’s probably pacing the house, wearing holes in the floorboards, worrying about us.

“First,” I tell the doctor and her assistant, “I have to let Grayson know I’m okay—that the baby is too. Then I’ll call Nick.”

“Bailey—”

“I swear to you, I will do it. Just give me a half hour to deal with it all and if Nick doesn’t call you after that, you call him. But I have no doubt, my initial conversation with him will be brief, then he’ll contact you, then he’ll be in touch with me again.”

Christ, I know the man that well.

I hold more tears at bay. I can’t get into that whole other can of worms at the moment.

I’m still reeling from this one.

With the other women’s help, I slip from the examination table. Admittedly, my knees are practically knocking together. My breaths are still sparse and I’m trembling from head to toe, but…

“Grayson will drive me back to the main house,” I say as I pull my dress down from where it was hitched under my breasts during the ultrasound. I’ll have to go sans underwear until I can get to my suite. “If you tell me not to work tonight, I won’t work tonight.”

“I would prefer that you don’t,” Dr. Shaw replies. “Not because I fear anything adverse for the baby—I believe we’ve addressed that and I’m sending you off with antibiotics.” Lavinia is already setting up a small bottle for me. “But you’re visibly shaken, Bailey, and I want you to relax. Put your feet up. Let Grayson take care of you. For a night.”

I nod.

“Going forward,” she adds, “please take regular breaks at the restaurant. Ten to fifteen minutes every hour, preferably.”

“I can do paperwork and other stuff during that time. I’ll for sure do it.”

“Fine. Now. I want you to take a few deep breaths for me.”

I do so as Lavinia assesses my pulse and blood pressure. Both of which have come down to an acceptable rate.

“I’m releasing you,” Dr. Shaw continues. “Though, I want to see you tomorrow. Between now and then—and, of course, thereafter—if you have any doubts or any twinges or anything out of the ordinary, call me. Day or night, Bailey. You know I’m available to you 24/7.”

“And I appreciate that. From both of you.”

Lavinia wants to hug me. I can see it in her eyes. She was quite concerned about me and now she’s as relieved as I am.

I give another nod and she briefly, lightly embraces me—like, barely. Regardless, it’s packed with goodwill. She steps back.

I head to the door, so very thankful Grayson is, indeed, waiting for me on the other side.

He spares no time swooping in, putting an arm around my waist, and gently clasping my hand.

I can’t leave him in suspense and say, “Everything’s fine. An infection. Dr. Shaw will solve it.”

He’s still ghostly white.

“Seriously,” I avow, “if she’s letting me out of that room, she’s confident I’m not in any danger—nor is this kid.”

“I realize that,” he says. Though he’s notably choked up.

Yet Grayson being Grayson, he recovers and returns to his very strong and capable position of butler/friend/father figure.

“How about some soup?”

I grin up at him. “Chicken noodle, I presume?”

“Lobster bisque or tomato basil might be too rich after what you’ve just been through.”

“True fact. Chicken noodle, it is.”

We slowly make our way to the golf cart he uses to get around the property—and it served as our means of rapid transportation earlier. The ride on the winding pathway is a smooth one and when we’re back at the house, I settle into my suite, in front of the fire, a blanket over me.

I need to call Mitch, but that can wait, since my parttime, full-service manager is already at the restaurant, prepping for the lunch crowd.

Given Grayson is going to make the soup from scratch, I have some time. And some privacy.

I draw in more full breaths. Hit the button on the remote control for the soothing music to flow through the speakers.

Then I reach for my phone.

And ring Nick. 

As I’d suspected, he obsesses over my personal wellbeing, then speaks to Dr. Shaw about the baby, then calls me. Obsessing some more.

“I feel fine,” I avow, despite remaining a bit on edge over the scare—and because I’ve clearly upset him with the news. “If she’s not alarmed, we shouldn’t be alarmed,” I point out.

“Of course. That’s true. I absolutely trust in Dr. Shaw’s judgment.”

His tone instantly turns soothing, because now he’s trying to appease me, make sure I’m calm.

This totally works for me.

He chats about this and that; small talk, obviously, knowing I find his voice to be not only a fabulous distraction, but also a comforting one.

Granted, we’re still in a strange place with each other. He doesn’t make an issue of that. Rather, he strives for some serenity between us and by the time we disconnect again, I’m less twisted on the inside.

I eat the soup Grayson makes for me. Followed by an early dinner.

Grayson is a miraculous support system unto himself, and I’m grateful he sticks close to me. Not in a stifling manner, but within earshot in the event I need him. Just knowing he’s on-hand is enough to alleviate my lingering tension.

I’m covered at work, but I have my laptop and there are plenty of admin tasks to tackle and some items to tick off with the accountant. Plus, I can give approval via text for anything Mitch needs. And he’s informed me that the lead hostess, who has expressed interest in more hours and more responsibility, has volunteered to manage front of house this evening, along with our manager, while Mitch is servicing the kitchen and expediting. She’ll learn a lot this way and I can likely count on her when there are days I’m feeling under the weather and have to limit my own hours.

Much farther down the line, is my hope. I don’t intend to be bedridden for the duration of my pregnancy.

Not that I really have any say in the matter, right?

I don’t dwell on this particular aspect/potential roadblock. I continue with what I can accomplish from home.

When my eyes are basically glassed over, I absently watch a movie. I decide I’m exhausted from the earlier ordeal and head to my suite.

I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep—or if I’ll grind over what happened this morning and how Nick is probably in a dither, regardless of his smooth talking, because he’s not here and he has no control over the situation.

I suppose that’s one of the most difficult pills to swallow. Neither of us really has control in this vein, other than for me to adhere to everything Dr. Shaw says and for Nick to ensure I retain that high-quality concierge care.

I do take solace in this and it’s not long before I’m nodding off.

I’m in and out of slumber, though. Sort of starting to wake, then returning to dreamland, which is centered on Nick, then creeping toward lucidity again.

I hear his voice. Feel his muscles and his skin and his warm breaths. His arms around me.

Clearly, I’m desperate for these things—possibly even more so because I can still use some reassurance. Therefore, I surmise my subconscious is conjuring his presence.

Except, no…

The dream is too vivid, his voice too close to my ear to be merely my mind playing tricks on me. I really can feel him. Coaxing me from sleep.

My eyelids flutter open.

I glance at the clock, just to see if I’m fully awake or still drifting, latching too much onto the fantasy of Nick being in bed with me.

But those truly are his muscles and his heat and his distinct scent enveloping me.

I shift slightly. Glance over my bare shoulder. He kisses it.

Tears spring to my eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is all I can think to say.

“I couldn’t not be here,” he murmurs.