A groan leaves me as another horrific wave rolls over me, and I shove myself to my feet and make a stumbling run for the ensuite bath.
I took over Kace's room weeks ago when I moved in because at the time he'd needed the recliner to keep his leg propped up, but even after the cast was replaced earlier this week with a lower leg cast that would allow him to sleep in his bed comfortably, Kace insisted I remain where I was.
At least the master bedroom has its advantages—namely privacy.
I lose the dinner that seemed like such a good thing at the time and spend the next thirty minutes hugging a towel atop the bathroom rug.
This sucks.
Pregnancy sucks.
Everything sucks.
I hate throwing up, yet it seems to be all I do.
The book I downloaded to my e-reader says the morning sickness should be ending, and I'm counting on that being the case because this? Suuucks.
I have an appointment with an ob-gyn to get established as a patient, but the appointment isn't for another few weeks. The scheduler said if pregnancy is suspected, they booked appointments at around six to ten weeks to confirm. So my appointment would technically put me at eleven weeks and one day, and the book I downloaded said the doctor's timing is due to most miscarriages happening during that six-to-ten-week timeframe.
I can't fault their experience in such matters, but it doesn't help me much now, does it?
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, placing a hand over my stomach. I can't tell any differences except—maybe my belly is a little firmer? My breasts are tender, too. And there's the hurling.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I quickly roll to my side to combat the feeling. It doesn't help, and I'm back in white-throne worship position within seconds.
I have nothing left, but dry heaves still wrack me. I vaguely hear a few low thumps from somewhere in the house, but I'm too dazed to care. Whoever it is will have to wait. I'm a little busy right now.
"Linds?"
Kace's deep voice whispers over my too-hot skin, and I groan. This is not the way I want anyone to see me. Especially not my—boss? Roommate? Patient?
Tall, Dark and Daddy?
Despite living together for weeks now, I still don't know exactly what to call him. And he's here in the bathroom, and I'm just heaving away, unable to lift my head. Yay me.
Once this round is over, I lean my forehead against my forearm and spare him a watery-blurred glance to see him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, casted leg extended and crutches propped against the sink.
The house is older. Probably one of the first on the island, so the doorways and rooms are pretty small. Still, he's managed to get his very tall, muscular self into the room, thanks to the crutches he's finally able to tolerate against the burns.
"Here. Maybe this'll help."
This is a wet washcloth. I grab it with a trembling hand and wipe my face, reveling in the coolness of it. From there, I put it on my neck and moan.
"Bad one, huh?"
"I thought morning sickness was supposed to stay in the morning," I grumble.
His warm, husky chuckle soothes something in me I didn't know needed soothing, and I feel the cloth get plucked away but replaced with a fresh one. I sigh. Hard. "You're an angel," I breathe.
"Right back at you, sweetheart."
We're both whispering in deference to the time of night. I switch the rag from my neck to my face and make another swipe. It feels so good.
"Have you made your doc appointment yet? You know, to get checked out and on prenatal vitamins?"
I nod, eyes closed. "Yeah."
He doesn't seem satisfied by my answer because I can feel him sitting there, observing me. I can only imagine how I look. Greenish-pale, bedhead and sweaty. I'm the whole package, baby. "I'm okay now. I think it's over."
