Page 21 of Royal Baby Maker

“Miss Callehurst has her sight set on you, for whatever reason, so I'm not shocked she didn't warn you, but Bishop—”

“I mean,” she snapped, shutting me up, “Why hasn'thetold me this?”

I pulled up short. “He'd have no reason to talk to you.”

When she laughed, she threw her hair over one shoulder. The sound burrowed through my bones and brought the nausea back. “Right, no reason. Especially not when we're chatting over coffee, or sitting in his kitchen. Nope, no chance to tell me to bug off because he's picked some random side piece to be his wife.”

The ground was sliding out from under me. I pictured them, sitting like he and I had, talking over the kitchen island... laughing... flirting. Not once speaking about all the promises he'd made to me.

She was smiling so her teeth showed. “Bishop will never marry you. You're nothing. It's sad, really.”

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. The urge to scream, to cry, to rip out the damn flowers I'd been hiding behind—all of it was buried under my rush of hot-sickness. Recoiling, afraid I'd puke, I took off stumbling across the yard. Iris called something out to me, but I didn't turn back to listen.

All I could do was run.

He didn't tell her.Yanking at the driver's side door of my car where I'd parked it on the steep hill, I dove inside.Bishop didn't say a word about us.Frantically I rolled my windows down. My car's interior was sweltering, sapping away the last of my strength. I slumped in the seat with my eyes shut, desperately trying to stop my stomach from eating itself.

Calm down. Breathe.Cranking on the AC, I drove my car slowly down the road. I hadn't gotten my paycheck, I hadn't even told Bishop I was leaving. Right now, I needed a moment away from that whole damn money-corrupt world.

I was feeling ill from Iris's cruel dash of reality. It was so bad I started to shake.Is this really from talking to her? No, it's got to be something more. Low blood sugar, yeah.And if not, when was it ever a bad time for chocolate?

Heading around the corner, I parked my car outside of a small gas station.Just get a snack, some water, and then you can think straight.Before I could get my purchases to the counter, another wave of nausea—this one so sharp it made me ball up on the spot—hit me. “Fuck,” I gasped.

“You okay?” It was the man running the register. His chubby face was slack with nerves, like he expected me to drop dead and he'd be left to clean up the mess.

Licking my dry lips, I said, “Fine. I'm totally fine.”This is more than nerves or fucking blood sugar.A live wire tingle of fear inched towards my brain, lighting it up with a terrifying guess about why I felt so off.

Turning away, I hurried to the small back section in the store. It was the spot they kept things like Advil, condoms, and...No, just breathe. It can't be that.Grabbing the pink box, I threw everything on the counter and waited impatiently as the man rang me up. When he handed me my items in a bag, I looked around quickly. “Is there a restroom I can use?”

He stared. Then he pointed, asking no questions.

Normally, I'd be relieved the bathroom wasn't a filth-hole. I was too focused on my task to care. Ripping open the box I'd bought, I went through the motions, reading the instructions over and over because I'd never done anything like this before and didn't want to make a mistake.

How long has it been since my last period?I didn't think too hard about the answer to that question. I didn't need to. Because right in front of me, held daintily between my fingers like it was a poison needle, was the clearest answer I could have imagined.

Were the two pink lines on a positive pregnancy testalwaysthat bright?

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