Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(16)
“No!” I wail.
“Well sit! Right now! Sit down, and tell me when you’ve done it.”
I climb onto the bed, tears of panic welling in my eyes. “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant, I’m motherfucking pregnant! Shit fuck! Fuck shit!”
“Let’s take some deep breaths. Are you sure?”
“Why do people always ask that?” My voice cracks. “Of course I’m sure!” Tears stream down my cheeks.
“There were two lines—”
“YES! I’m two weeks late. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Shit.”
“I’m having a royal child! A royal bastard. Oh God, Am, what if he steals it?”
“Steals it?”
“Yes! It’s a royal child! Blue blood! What if he kidnaps it to raise in the castle?”
Amelia laughs. “Lucy, calm down. Prince Liam didn’t even grow up in the castle. He went to K-12 in America.”
“Okay,” I whisper, wiping my eyes.
“I’m taking it you want to keep the baby.”
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “It’s mine.” I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes, but I can’t seem to let them out. They’re stuck. I spread my hand over my belly. “I’m pregnant. Amelia, I am motherfucking pregnant.”
“It sounds like you may be.”
Silence swims between us.
“I’ll come,” she says. “Now. I can get some time off if—”
“No! You don’t need to take off from the internship.” I blink around my bedroom, with its antique, oak furniture and faded flower wallpaper. I feel like I’m in a new place. On another planet.
“Oh my God Amelia, what about the paps? When they see my bump?”
“Wear baggy shirts.”
“Forever?”
“Really baggy. Jackets!”
“I’ll become a shut-in.”
“Grocery stores deliver. Even there I bet they do.”
“I need seclusion. I need cheese!”
“What?”
“Cheese. I need some fucking cheese.” With one last glance at the pee stick on the bedside table, I start downstairs. “Am… My legs are shaking.”
“Hold onto the rail! Is there a rail on your stairs? I don’t remember.”
“Yes.” I let another little half sob out.
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
I open the refrigerator, feeling bereft as I blink at the empty shelves. “Shit. I don’t have cheese. I haven’t been here. This one pack of cheese is moldy!”
“You do not need moldy cheese.”
“I have no groceries.” My voice cracks. “My baby will starve!”
“Oh God, Luce. Are you pretty sure it’s his?”
“Am I pretty sure? How many guys do you think I slept with in Southampton?”
“I didn’t know. Just checking.”
“Thanks. So much.”
“Aww, Luce. A baby,” she coos.
“Yes.” I flick on the kitchen light and open up a pantry door. “Do they like popcorn? Canned green beans? Canned black eyed peas?”
“No canned stuff. Because listeria.”
“Isn’t that a mouth wash?”
“No. Oh goodness, Luce. You need to see a doctor. Like—tomorrow.”
*
As it goes, I spend a week living what used to be my life, waking with the sunrise to care for the horses, working Dear Abby (Please Help) most days, even running and jumping her. The internet says unless your stomach is protruding beyond your hip bones, falling off a horse shouldn’t hurt the baby. Not unless you hit your head, and I’m wearing a helmet.
I tell myself I’m just giving the baby a little longer to develop. So when I go in to the doctor’s, I can hear a heartbeat and know the pregnancy is viable and stuff. I do have prenatal vitamins. I’ve taken them for years, for hair and nails.
At night, I binge-watch Netflix on my iPad and look at my stomach as it aches down in the lower part, sort of like the baby’s kicking at my insides. Is the baby big enough to hurt me? A quick Google search reveals that no, the baby isn’t big enough to kick or punch me quite yet. He or she is only blueberry sized.
I text Amelia. ‘The RBB is blueberry sized.’
I know it’s horrible: RBB stands for royal bastard baby. I swear, it’s meant with utmost affection.
Something about the baby’s new status as fruit-sized makes me sort of want to see a doctor. The baby has a heartbeat now—or should. Dr. Google tells me he or she is developing “ear buds,” whatever that means.
I need to see this baby. I want to hear its heartbeat.
The next morning, I call the nearest OB bright and early, while Grey looks on from his perch on the kitchen counter, smugly licking his paws. A kindly receptionist, whom I hope doesn’t know anyone in Hollywood or Georgia, tells me there’s been a cancelation: I can come at 1:30 this afternoon.
“Sure,” I say. I’m surprised at the tone of my own voice. I sound so nonchalant, like I’m just fine with all this.
I wear my hair up, with a ball-cap over it, and workout leggings with a long t-shirt and sneakers. My Raybans don’t come off until I’m safe inside the elevator. As I walk into the large waiting room, partitioned in half by a giant bookshelf, I struggle to check out the other women’s bellies while avoiding eye contact.