She’s putting that label on me.
Another glance over her shoulder toward Alyssia reveals that I might be earning that look.
I shake my head and take a step back, giving the nurse the space and freedom to slide the curtain between us, effectively shutting me out of whatever’s going on with Alyssia and the baby.
Baby.
CHAPTER 9
Alyssia
How the hell did I get into this mess?
I try to untangle the strings of the mess that’s become my life on the drive across the Brooklyn Bridge to my apartment.
In my fingers I fidget with the bag holding the prenatal vitamins along with the discharge papers from the hospital.
Suspected subchorionic hematoma.
That’s what the emergency room doctor put on my chart with a strong recommendation to make an appointment with my OB-GYN as soon as possible to get an ultrasound to confirm diagnosis.
Another glance over to my left finds Travis staring straight ahead, jaw rigid, body tense as we ride in the back of his chauffeured vehicle.
I owe him an explanation. Something more than I’ve been able to give him, but I’m barely able to use full sentences.
Ever since a simple visit to the bathroom had me staring down at the droplets of reddish-brown blood on the seam of my panties sent me into a frenzy of uncertainty, I haven’t been able to think straight let alone articulate my thoughts.
But he deserves an explanation.
“We’re here, Mr. Townsend,” the driver says after coming to a stop in front of my apartment building.
“Don’t move,” Travis’ low but firm command stops my hand midway to the door handle.
Before I turn and ask him anything, he’s out of the car and coming around to my side, opening the door for me.
“Take my hand.” Another order that I somehow find myself obeying when I lay my hand in his, allowing him to help me up.
A piece of me wants to tell him I don’t need the assistance. Under normal circumstances, I would tell him off for trying to tell me what to do.
But my fiercely independent streak has chosen to abandon me at the moment.
I expect cold stiffness or even a harsh grip the second I place my hand into Travis’, but I get the exact opposite. His hold is firm yet gentle while at the same time being supportive, strong.
As if he’s telling me without words, if I wanted, I could lean on him and he’d have no problem holding me.
That’s just my imagination.
This man doesn’t know me, nor do I know him.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m coming up,” he insists without hesitation.
“It’s a fifth floor walkup,” I reply.
His eyes narrow, lips forming a frown.
He doesn’t like that for some reason. Probably because it doesn’t meet his high-priced, tailored tuxedo and shined to perfection shoes wearing standards.
