Читать книгу Little Secrets: His Pregnant Secretary - Joanne Rock - Страница 11

Four

Pacing the floor of the cottage bedroom, Delia paused to check her desk calendar for the third time, making sure her dates were right while she waited for the results of the at-home pregnancy test.

The calendar told her the same thing it had before. It was now two weeks until Christmas, and almost six weeks after that fateful night when she’d let her attraction to Jager run wild.

Nearly six weeks since she’d had unprotected sex with her boss, and no sign of her period. She’d ended up taking the morning-after contraception Jager had purchased for her after speaking to her physician, so she’d honestly thought they’d be in the clear, even though she hadn’t been able to take the pill within the first twenty-four hours as would have been ideal. But it was still supposed to be highly effective within the first seventy-two hours, so she hadn’t panicked when her doctor hadn’t gotten back to her personally until the next day.

Still, she’d delayed this test, fearing a false negative result. Better to wait longer and be certain, even if Jager had been texting her daily from Morocco, asking her for updates, tactfully suggesting a blood test at an appointment he’d helpfully arranged. She’d been ducking his calls, which was totally unprofessional given that he still had some sway over her job, despite Gabriel McNeill now technically being the one signing her paycheck. But the longer she went missing her expected period, the more her anxiety spiked.

Because honestly, she was scared to know the truth.

In Jager’s last text, he’d informed her he would fly home tonight, insisting they find out for certain one way or another. Knowing she couldn’t handle discovering the result in front of him, she’d surrendered and pulled out one of the pregnancy tests she’d purchased two weeks before.

Now she just had to wait three minutes.

Thirty more seconds, she corrected herself after checking her watch. Skin still damp from her bath, Delia tightened the bathrobe tie around her waist and returned to the steamy bathroom where the garden tub was draining. The clove-and-cinnamon-scented bubble bath, which she made from her own recipe during the holidays, was a small decadence she allowed herself at times like this.

The pregnancy test lay facedown on the white tile countertop beside the sink. She’d left it there while she reread the instructions to be sure she understood. One line meant not pregnant. Two lines—however faint—meant she was going to have a child with Jager McNeill.

She’d read online that high tension and stress could delay a period. That had to be why she was late. So, holding her breath, she closed her eyes. Flipped over the stick on the cool tile.

Two. Lines.

One bright pink. One paler pink.

There was no denying it. And according to the package, this was the most reliable at-home pregnancy detection kit.

“Oh, no. No.” Her legs turned to jelly beneath her. She felt so dizzy she clutched the narrow countertop with both hands to steady herself. The stack of rolled yellow hand towels swayed against the wall as she stared at it.

No, wait. That was her swaying.

She stumbled back to sit on the edge of the garden tub, the last of her bubble bath gurgling down the drain with a sucking swish. Kind of like all the plans she’d had for independence once she had her father more securely settled. Plans to get a college degree one day. To travel somewhere beyond this tiny island where she’d been born.

Plans for a future where she called the shots and dictated her own life. She must not have taken the morning-after medicine soon enough, but at the time, she’d really wanted her doctor’s advice about the pill considering her health history.

Wasn’t it enough that she’d screwed up by nearly marrying a guy who didn’t care about her? Nope. She had to compound her foolishness by succumbing to a moment of passion with a man who would never see her as more than...what? A company employee? A former friend turned sometime lover?

Her child deserved better than that.

That simple truth helped her emotions to level out. Made the dizzy feeling subside a bit. She couldn’t afford to wallow in a pity party for what she’d wanted in life. She was going to be a mother, and that was something tremendously significant.

She might have messed up plenty of times on her own behalf, but Delia Rickard was not going to be the kind of woman who made mistakes where her baby was concerned. That didn’t mean she had a clue what to do next, but she sure planned to take her time and figure it out.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Before she even finished the exhale, however, a swift, hard knock sounded on the front door of the cottage.

“Delia?” The deep rumble of the familiar voice caused panic to stab through her.

Jager McNeill had come home.

* * *

Jager stood under the cottage porch light, waiting. He knew Delia was here. His housekeeper had seen her enter the carriage house an hour ago and Delia’s lights were all on. Soft holiday music played inside.

She’d been avoiding any real conversations with him for weeks. He’d tried to give her some space, knowing she was even more rattled about the possibility of being pregnant than he was. Besides, the search for his brother had been intense, leading him on a circuitous path around the globe. Now he was certain, at least, that Damon was alive. But he’d seen signs that his brother was hell-bent on revenge and that scared him.

Still, Jager should have made Delia his first priority before now. Either she was delaying taking the pregnancy test for reasons he didn’t understand or—worse—she’d been hiding the news from him. Whatever the truth, he needed to earn her trust. He couldn’t afford to alienate her when their futures might be irrevocably bound.

He lifted his hand to knock again, only to hear the deadbolt slide free on the other side. The doorknob turned and there she was.

Delia.

Wearing a white terry-cloth robe and a pair of red-and-green-striped knee socks, she was scrubbed clean, her wet hair falling in dark gold waves onto her shoulders. Worry filled her hazel eyes. The rosy color he’d grown used to seeing was missing in her cheeks.

Hell.

He hadn’t seen her look so upset since that first day they’d met. And that comparison put his own behavior into perspective. He wasn’t a loser like her former fiancé. He should have come home before now. Been there for her.

“May I come in?” He hadn’t even changed his clothes when he stepped off the plane. He’d flown eight hours to be here today, the six-week anniversary of the passionate encounter in his office.

Six weeks hadn’t dimmed how much he wanted her. Not even when they were both stressed and worried about the future. If he had his way, she’d be in his arms already, but he didn’t want to pressure her.

“That would be wise.” Nodding, Delia retreated while he stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

He hadn’t been inside the cottage for over a year. He’d overseen the delivery of a few basic pieces of furniture when she’d first taken up residence in the renovated carriage house. But it bore no resemblance to what he remembered.

To say she painted flowers on the walls didn’t come close to describing the way she’d made the interior look like an enchanted garden. Yes, there were flowers of all colors and varieties—some not found in nature—growing from a painted grass border along the floor. On one wall, a full moon glowed in white phosphorescent paint, shining down on a garden path full of rabbits and hedgehogs, all following a girl in a dark blue dress. On another wall, there was a painted mouse hole on the baseboard, with a mouse with a broom and apron beside it, as if the tiny creature had just swept her front mat. Above the couch, framing a window overlooking the garden, someone had painted an elaborate stained-glass frame, as if the window view itself was a painting. The white curtains were drawn and a holiday wreath hung from the curtain rod on a bright red ribbon. He could only imagine the effect in the daytime.