Page 33 of Your Second Chance
Luna: Have them put the gender in an envelope. We’ll open it then. Together.
I sighed and grabbed my bag, tossing in an extra outfit. Pregnancy had taught me the hard way that one wrong sneeze or a too-long cab ride could turn into an emergency wardrobe change. Better safe than waddling around in shame. I ran outside to catch a cab, not wanting to deal with the tube.
“All right, Ms. Hart,” the doctor said, and I cringed at the last name.
I really need to get that changed soon.
“Everything looks really good with your anatomy scan, and we were able to see the sex. I’ll have the nurse put the result in a sealed envelope as you requested.”
“Thank you.”
I leaned forward in the chair. My gaze flicked downward, and there it was—pomegranate was starting to make its appearance, my belly undeniably rounding.
“I’ve also included all the paperwork you’ll need for your maternity leave,” the doctor continued. “You’ll want to get that settled sooner rather than later.”
No. It was way too soon to even think about that.
“You’ll be granted six months of ordinary maternity leave, with the option of an additional six months if you’d like to extend it,” she explained. “Many mums return around nine months after birth, but you’ll need to work that out with your employer.”
She handed me a folder thick with forms and pamphlets. “There are nursery care programs you’ll need to pay for afterward, and I’ve included information about some of the local programs that our patients have had great experiences with.”
It was far more information than I was ready to process. Overwhelming, yes, but also deeply appreciated. She’d thought of everything, and a small weight lifted knowing the resources were all in one place.
“Thank you.” I clutched the folder like a lifeline.
I got dressed quickly, slipping into my oversized sweater and jeans, the ones that barely fit anymore thanks to my swelling belly. I shoved the folder of papers into my purse, trying not to think too hard about the weight of what the doctor had said.
Outside, the crisp air bit at my cheeks as I walked to the coffee shop around the corner. The smell of roasted beans and warm pastries greeted me, momentarily lifting my mood. Iordered a latte and cradled it in my hands as I left the shop, the heat seeping into my fingers.
Walking toward the training grounds, I wasn’t paying attention, my mind spinning as I stuffed the papers deeper into my purse. Then I hit something—hard.
Coffee flew everywhere, splattering across the sidewalk as I shot my hands out to steady myself.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, stumbling back a step.
I looked up, already annoyed. And then I saw who it was, and my annoyance leveled up to fully-fledged rage.
“Oh, fucking great,” I muttered.
Of course.
I’d run into him. Ollie. The one person I wasn’t ready to see. Because of course, it would be him. Who else could it possibly be?
Ollie stood there, his hair styled neatly to the side, every strand seemingly in place. He was wearing a tan overcoat that framed his wide shoulders perfectly, black jeans that clung to his muscular legs, and scuffed brown combat boots.
Before I could react, his hand reached out instinctively, steadying mine, his fingers wrapping gently around my wrist. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of us.
“Nova,” he whispered.
I hadn’t seen him in a month. The last time was when he dropped me back off, and everything about this moment brought it all rushing back. My heart raced, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the shock of running into him or the way his hand lingered, warm against my skin.
Ollie cleared his throat and pulled his hand back, hovering it near mine. “My car’s around the corner. If you have extra clothes, you can change there instead of dealing with the changing rooms at the training grounds.”
I hesitated, wanting to snap back that I didn’t need his help, but the sticky coffee soaking through my sweater made the argument pointless.
Begrudgingly, I nodded, clutching my purse. “Fine.”
As we walked to his car, the silence between us was tense. I tried not to notice how his hand brushed mine once or twice, as though he wanted to reach out but thought better of it.
