Page 16 of Sizzling Desire

Yolanda laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s not pregnant. She was just joking around earlier about how she’s been feeling—tired, queasy, craving weird foods. You know, typical pregnancy stuff. It’s probably just a stomach bug.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Right. Probably just a bug.”

But her words stick, digging into my brain like splinters. Tired. Queasy. Weird cravings. My hand tightens on the edge of my desk, my mind racing through the last few weeks. Late nights at work. Skipping meals. A random craving for pickles that I chalked up to stress. I love eating pickles.

Oh, god.

Yolanda’s still talking, but her voice fades into the background as my thoughts spiral. It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just stress. But the seed of doubt has been planted, and now it’s growing roots, tangling around every rational thought I have left.

I glance at the calendar on my desk, my heart pounding harder. When was the last time I—oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

“Grace?” Yolanda’s voice snaps me back to reality, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Just realized I forgot something important. Excuse me for a minute.”

I grab my phone and practically sprint to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall and leaning against the cold metal door. My breathing is shallow, my thoughts are a chaotic mess. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

I pull up a period-tracking app on my phone, my hands shaking as I navigate to the calendar. The dates stare back at me, the gap between them a glaring red flag.

Shit.

My mind flashes to that night with Kane. The heat, the passion, the complete lack of thought or planning. We didn’t even—no. I can’t think about that now.

The app’s notification pops up on the screen: “You’re 11 days late.”

Panic rises in my chest, choking me. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. My life is already complicated enough without adding this into the mix. Kane Mitchell as a potential baby daddy? No. Absolutely not.

But as much as I want to deny it, the fear settles deep in my gut, refusing to be ignored.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to block out the world, trying to keep the panic at bay. I can’t deal with this. Not here. Not now.

And definitely not with him.

Because if there’s even the slightest chance I’m pregnant, Kane Mitchell is about to complicate my life in ways I never saw coming.

The little pink box stares up at me from the counter, mocking me with its cartoonishly cheerful branding. The wordsOver 99%Accuratepractically scream at me, as if the manufacturers know how badly I want it to be wrong.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath, shoving it further into the corner of my cart. I don’t even know why I bought it. This is just stress, or maybe the flu, or too much caffeine. That’s it.

But the nagging doubt won’t go away, so here I am, standing in the self-checkout line at Hibiscus Pharmacy, trying to pretend I’m completely normal while my heart races like I’m about to rob the place.

“Grace Fletcher, buying a pregnancy test,” I whisper under my breath, the words tasting strange and foreign. Like they belong to someone else’s life. Someone who doesn’t have a career to focus on, who didn’t spend a reckless, unforgettable night with Kane Mitchell in a moment of total insanity.

The clerk watching the registers glances my way, and I immediately look down, pretending to inspect the gum display like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“You need to chill,” I tell myself. But even as I swipe my card and bag the box, I feel like I’m walking out with a ticking time bomb in my purse.

The drive home is a blur. Every red light, every slow driver, every pedestrian feels like some cruel cosmic joke, as if the universe is dragging out my misery.

By the time I make it to my apartment, the tension in my chest is unbearable. I slam the door behind me, drop my bag on the floor, and pull the box out like it might bite me if I don’t keep an eye on it.

“Okay,” I say aloud, my voice echoing in the silence. “This is stupid. You’re fine. There’s no way…”

But my hands are shaking as I tear open the box, the instructions spilling out like confetti. I skim them quickly, then toss them aside. How complicated can this be? Just pee on the stick.

The next few minutes are a blur of fumbling, muttered curses, and sheer disbelief that this is my life right now. Finally, I set the test on the counter and lean back against the bathroom door, crossing my arms tightly over my chest as I stare at it like it’s a snake about to strike.

The seconds tick by, each one louder than the last, until the silence is deafening.

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