Not Quite Married

Clara knew she probably shouldn’t have given in and let Dalton take over. She should be strong and sure and independent.

She was strong and sure and independent. Just not right at that particular moment.

The paramedics—both of whom she’d known since elementary school—arrived. By then, Renée and half the kitchen staff had realized something was wrong. They crowded in behind the med techs, making worried noises, wanting to know if she was all right.

Dalton herded them back out again, explaining as he went that she had fainted, that they were taking her to Justice Creek General, that there was nothing to worry about, her doctor would take good care of her and she would be fine.

He sounded so wonderfully confident and certain that Clara found herself feeling reassured. Of course she would be all right—and the baby, as well. There was nothing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

Roberta and Sal, the two med techs, finished taking her vital signs. They transferred her to a stretcher and carried her out to the parking lot in back.

Dalton came out with her. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he promised.

“Not necessary,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” And then she waited for his answer, a thoroughly annoying little ball of dread in the pit of her stomach, that he would say, All right, then. Good luck with that, and be on his way.

But what he did say was “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” in a voice that seemed somehow both tender and gruff.

She barely kept herself from flashing him a trembling, grateful smile. “Oh, all right.” She played it grumpy and ill-tempered for all she was worth. “Suit yourself.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“My purse...”

“I’ll bring it,” he promised.

The techs, Sal and Roberta, loaded her into the ambulance. Sal got in with her, while Roberta went around to get in behind the wheel. Dalton was still standing there, outside the doors, when Sal pulled them shut.

* * *

At Justice Creek General, they transferred her to a wheelchair, rolled her into one of the little triage cubicles, lifted her up onto the bed in there and hooked her to an IV. Fluids, they said, to make sure she was hydrated.

They’d just left her alone when Dalton walked in. “How are you doing?”

She was ridiculously glad to see his stern, handsome face. You’d think it had been years since she’d seen him—rather than twenty minutes, tops. “I’m getting hydrated.”

“Excellent.” He settled into one of the two molded plastic chairs.

“I think this is overkill,” she grumbled, heavy on the attitude, which helped to remind her that she wasn’t going to count on him.

“You’ve said that before.”

“What about the bank? Aren’t they expecting you eventually today?”

He flashed her a cool, oh-so-confident glance. “I’ve called my assistant and rearranged my schedule.”

“Are you sure you should do that?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Perks of being the boss. No one’s going to give me a hard time about taking a personal day.”

“Ah.” So, okay. He was staying. What else was there to say?

Nothing, apparently. He got out his smartphone and started poking at it. She stared up at the ceiling for a while, until her eyes drifted shut.

She realized she’d been snoozing when a giant, muscular guy with coffee-dark skin and dreadlocks came in to draw blood. Then a nurse came in and went over her medical history with her. After that, she dozed some more.

Eventually, she had to ask for the ladies’ room. A blonde in purple scrubs pointed the way. She wheeled an IV pole with her when she went and reminded herself to count her blessings: at least Dalton hadn’t insisted on going in there with her.

Back in the little room with him, she waited some more. She slept a little and felt generally mind-numbingly bored. Through all that, he remained, sitting there so calmly, now and then taking out his phone and checking things on it. She would have thought a high-powered control freak like what he’d turned out to be would be climbing the walls with all the endless waiting. But he took it in stride.

At half past eleven, Dr. Kapur showed up. Clara told her what had happened. Dr. Kapur left the room so that Clara could put on a paper gown. Dalton went out with her. The doctor came back in alone for the examination and Clara wondered if maybe Dalton had gone.

It was for the best, she decided. He didn’t need to hang around for this. She was fine on her own.

But then he came right back in to hear the doctor’s conclusions.

“Your baby seems to be doing well, no signs of fetal distress,” Dr. Kapur said with a reassuring smile, gazing steadily at Clara—and then turning to share that smile with Dalton.

He’s told my doctor that he’s the father, Clara realized. And somehow, knowing he’d done that both pissed her off—and made her feel like crying. With a little bit of warm fuzziness thrown in for good measure.

Dr. Kapur continued. “But you’ve been pushing too hard, I think. You’re dehydrated and you need rest. To start, I’m going to keep you overnight for observation and then tomorrow we’ll decide where to go from here.”

Clara longed to argue that she was fine and where she wanted to go was home. But if her doctor thought she needed to stay, so be it.

Then they put her in another wheelchair and rolled her to a regular room.

Once they’d had her change into a very ugly pink floral hospital gown—Dalton left the room for that, which she truly appreciated—and made her comfortable in the bed, they offered her lunch. They fed Dalton, too.

After the meal, she tried to get up and get her purse, which Dalton had stuck in the locker across the room.

“Stay in bed,” he commanded, rising to loom over her. And then his dark eyebrows drew together. “Or do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I want my phone.”

“Why?”

“I need to make a few calls.”

“You should rest.”

She only glared at him until he gave in and went and got it for her. She called Renée and said she was fine, but they were keeping her overnight, which meant she most likely wouldn’t be in tomorrow—or if so, not until after the breakfast rush. Renée reassured her that things were under control and told her to take all the time she needed. They said goodbye and Clara started to autodial Rory.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said in a low and gentle tone that still, to her, managed to sound overbearing and superior.

“I am resting. And also making a few necessary calls.”

“You just told your manager that you would be in tomorrow,” he accused.

“No, I said I probably wouldn’t be in. If you’re going to eavesdrop on my conversations, you should listen more closely.”