“I’ve given over fifty prostate exams this week and that is still less horrible than what ye just told me! Dinnae say another word.” Her laptop chimes softly and she gratefully turns to it. “Thank god, your test results are in and then I’m sending ye away and pretending this conversation never happened.” She taps a key. “Given these hCG levels, I’m thinking you’re about six weeks along. Everything looks good. The next step is a scan.”
“I should tell Michael first,” I say. “That seems like something he should be present for, if… you know, if he’s okay with it.”
“Ye bampot, of course he’s gonna be okay,” she says, smacking my arm. “I’m hitting ye now because I will probably be denied my smacking privileges until ye have this baby.”
“That’s fair,” I say, rubbing my arm.
“How are ye going to tell him?”
“I have… not the slightest idea,” I admit.
“He’s going to be so chuffed, I know it,” she says encouragingly. “It dinnae look like you’re taking me to lunch and my break is over anyway, so go home. My next rotation involves inserting catheters. You’re queasy enough as it is. I dinnae want ye boaking up on me.”
“You’re too good to me.” Giving her a hug, I whisper, “Thank you. Truly.”
“Here,” she hands me a sheet printed with the results of my blood work and a couple of flyers about vitamins and early care. “Dr. MacTavish would be a good choice as your O&G for the pregnancy, she delivered Mala and Arabella’s babies.”
“Dr. Carolyn MacTavish?”
“No, she’s the wound specialist.”
“Oh. Do you mean Dr. Maureen MacTavish?” I ask.
“She’s the surgeon.”
“Oh, my god! This family. Which MacTavish?”
Maisie’s laughing. “Dr. Fiona MacTavish. I’ll text you her contact info.”
Ian’s leaning against the wall in the hallway across from the nurse’s station. I’m not saying he’s flirting with the pretty red-headed nurse, but I’ve never seen him smile like that.
“Do you want me to go back into the locker room so you and Nurse Hottie have a couple of minutes?” I murmur as we head for the elevator.
“I dinnae know what ye mean, ma’am,” he says sedately.
“Of course you don’t,” I smother my grin.
Ian shoos away a couple of teenagers admiring my cherry-red Aston Martin SUV and helps me inside. “Hey, Torin?” I ask. “Can we stop at the drugstore on the way home?”
“Aye, of course.” He turns east, heading for the bougie little shopping district by our neighborhood. I like Torin a lot, he’s in his mid-forties, head shaved bald with a long goatee with years of experience. He doesn’t seem upset that he’s been assigned to my detail, though, and unlike most of the MacTavish security, he’s not incredibly uptight all the time.
We pull up in front of Boots, and I lean over the seat. “Is there anything I can get you while we’re in there?”
“Aye. Can ye pick me up the big bag of Lucky Tatties?”
Lucky Tatties are coconut covered candies shaped like potatoes. They’re hugely popular with like, ten-year-olds. This just makes me like Torin more. “You got it.”
He leans against the SUV, scanning the street as Ian helps me out of the car. I browse the cosmetics aisles first, just to drive Ian mad with boredom so he won’t follow me so closely and I’ll be able to slip over to the vitamins section without him noting they’re prenatal ones.
But first, a quick stop for the restroom.
“Hey Ian, can you stand across from the men’s room instead? It freaks the girls out when they open the door and you’re looming there.”
He sighs, but moves down the hall a bit.
I’m washing my hands when the door opens and I hear a clamor- shelves crashing over, glass breaking, a couple of shrill screams. Before I can run out and see if Ian’s okay, an arm goes around my throat.
“Don’t fucking move.”
