It Started with a Pregnancy
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Christy Jeffries
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Chapter One
Rebekah Taylor stared at the pregnancy test in her hand. How could it be positive? They’d used protection, one of the condoms she’d gotten as a gag gift from a friend’s bachelorette party a couple of years ago. Sure, the thing had been an embarrassing shade of glittery pink, but it should have worked in the heat of the moment.
Except it hadn’t.
Had the condom expired? Rebekah glanced at the reflection of her wide, panic-filled eyes in the mirrored medicine cabinet. Every six months she methodically went through all her kitchen and bathroom cupboards and threw out everything that was even close to its expiration date.
How had she missed something as important as this? Sighing, she slouched lower on the toilet seat. Probably because she’d hidden the little heart-shaped box in a back corner of her nightstand drawer, where it was out of sight and out of mind. It probably would’ve stayed in its hiding spot indefinitely if she hadn’t been so desperate.
And so lonely.
Although, at least she’d had a condom to start with, unlike the carefree Grant Whitaker, who’d come to her house unprepared for a one-night stand eight weeks ago. Not that either one of them had been expecting things to get physical that night.
In fact, Rebekah hadn’t been able to stand the guy the first few times he’d visited Spring Forest, North Carolina. Flying in from Florida in his board shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops every couple of months, he looked more like a surf instructor than any kind of business professional.
And the weird thing was, for such a relaxed-looking guy, he’d always watched Rebekah like a hawk. She was the director of Furever Paws, his elderly aunts’ nonprofit organization, yet he constantly kept his eye on her—as though he expected she would stuff her pockets full of dog biscuits and sneak them into the puppy kennels if his back was turned. Of course, he was pretty much like that with everyone who worked at the shelter. Everyone who wasn’t family, at least. The guy was undoubtedly protective of his relatives.
“Nobody would mistake you for being a part of the Whitaker family,” she told her reflection. As a biracial woman with an African American mother and an Irish American father, Rebekah’s deep bronze skin and black, springy curls were a stark contrast to Grant’s lighter, sun-kissed complexion and wavy blond hair. Would their baby favor one of them over the other? Or would their child be blessed with the best of both gene sets. “Stop it!” she commanded herself. She’d barely known about the pregnancy for three minutes and already she was letting her emotions overrule her logic.
Maybe that first test was just a dud. Rebekah frantically tore open another package, this time from the manufacturer that promised a plus sign instead of two striped lines. Ten minutes later, though, the result was the same.
She would’ve sunk to her knees right there in her brand-new townhome and curled herself into a little ball if she’d thought it would help. But grown women with mortgages and MBAs and lead positions at nonprofits didn’t break down and cry every time something went wrong.
They examined the problem, researched solutions and made lists of what to do next. Taking out a pad of paper she wrote down, 1. Make doctor appointment. She got as far as writing the number 2 on her to-do list, but then couldn’t think of what she should do next.
Tell Grant?
A tremor shook through her at the thought of how that conversation might go. The man would probably react in one of two ways. He might say, “Right on,” and then eventually forget about her and their kid because they didn’t fit with his bachelor lifestyle. Or he might accuse her of getting pregnant on purpose to trap him—just like Trey once had.
There really wasn’t any sense in doing anything until she’d confirmed things with the doctor. Crumpling the list in her hand, she tossed it into the wastebasket, right on top of the pink-and-blue boxes.
Walking to the kitchen, she flipped on her coffee machine out of habit before remembering that pregnant women were supposed to limit their caffeine intake. A tic started at her temple and Rebekah wondered how she could possibly give up coffee for nine whole months.
Wait. Longer if she decided to breastfeed.
Her cell phone pinged behind her and she turned and swiped the screen, looking at the text message her mom had just sent.
Did we book my class’s field trip for the first or second Tuesday of September?
Rebekah pinched the bridge of her nose. Her mother was a first-grade teacher and had been begging Rebekah to set up a tour of the pet rescue for a bunch of six-year-olds. Thank goodness she didn’t have to deal with that headache today.
Mom, it’s scheduled for the eighth. I put it in the online calendar I set up for you last week.
Dimples, you know I’m never going to use that calendar thingy. It’s too complicated. Plus, your dad accidentally deleted the app off my phone when he was trying to reset our wi-fi password.
Before Rebekah could respond, another message popped up on her screen. This time from her dad.
Hey there, Dimples. Your mom screwed up our wi-fi password again and I can’t find the paper where you wrote down all our log-in codes. Any chance you can come up this weekend and reset things for us?
Rebekah was convinced that her parents purposely remained technologically challenged because it gave them the perfect excuse to summon their dutiful daughter home for long weekend visits. Normally, she didn’t mind the thirty-minute trips to Raleigh, but Rebekah wasn’t quite ready to face them yet.
After typing a detailed response to her father, including a description of where she’d filed their log-in information and an online link to a video giving them a step-by-step tutorial on how to change their password, Rebekah found the number for a local obstetrician with excellent ratings and took a deep breath before placing her call.
A male receptionist answered and Rebekah had to clear her throat several times before finally getting the words out. “I think I might be pregnant and I’d like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Singh.”
“Congratulations,” the deep masculine voice replied and Rebekah took solace in the fact that at least there was one man in this world who was happy about her revelation. “How far along are you?”
“Um, I’m thinking eight weeks,” she offered, going off the app on her phone that tracked her cycle. She could organize everything else in her life to a T, but much to her frustration, she’d never been very regular when it came to her periods.
“And do you know the date of conception?”
Embarrassment threaded through the lower half of her torso, squeezing around her stomach. Of course she knew the exact date of conception. She even remembered the spicy lettuce wraps and the blackberry mojitos that had been on special during that fateful happy hour. It had only been one night of weakness. Yet apparently, one night was all it took. Instead of admitting as much to the receptionist, she simply told him the date.
“Usually Dr. Singh doesn’t see her patients until they’re closer to twelve weeks. I can put you on the books for October.”
Rebekah clenched her jaw so tightly, her back molars vibrated. It was currently the end of August and there was no way she could wait that long without knowing for sure. She hated to even think about the last time she’d found herself in a similar situation, let alone use it as an excuse to garner special treatment. However, she needed to take action, she needed to be in control of the situation this time. “Actually, I have a history of ectopic pregnancy, so I’m sure the doctor will want to see me sooner.”
“Of course,” he replied, and she heard him tapping on a keyboard. “In that case, the soonest we can get you in will be next Thursday.”
He listed the appointment openings, and after finding one that worked for her schedule, Rebekah wrote down the time in her day planner. Then she mumbled her thanks and disconnected the call so she could also program the appointment into the calendar app on her smartphone.
Getting into the shower, she made a firm decision to put the whole thing out of her mind until next week.
That vow lasted a whole forty-five minutes—when her teal blue Fiat was idling at the intersection near a large chain drugstore. She glanced at the clock on her dashboard and wasn’t surprised to see she had plenty of time to swing inside, grab some prenatal vitamins and still get to work half an hour early.
When she came out of the pharmacy, she walked over to Great American Bakery, because she couldn’t very well take the vitamin on an empty stomach. Besides, if she couldn’t have coffee, then a warm chocolate croissant would be the next best thing to settle her nerves. No, not her nerves. She refused to be nervous. This uneasy feeling in her tummy was simply due to hunger. Or the pregnancy cravings she’d only heard about but never experienced.
Climbing back into her car, she realized that she’d surely get crumbs and chocolate all over her brand-new silk blouse. Many of the people employed at Furever Paws wore much more functional clothes for working with animals, but Rebekah had a lunch with a potential donor this afternoon and then a city council meeting tonight. Her bosses, Bunny and Birdie Whitaker, were going to request a zoning ordinance to allow for a cell tower on their farm, which adjoined the pet rescue’s learning center. The tower would provide the sisters some much-needed financial revenue, and it would provide the town’s new development of Kingdom Creek some better wireless service.
Not everyone in the suburban town was happy with how quickly their little city was blossoming, though, so she was expecting to confront some annoyed townspeople tonight.
By the time she pulled into her parking spot at work, her stomach was growling and her temples were pounding from the beginnings of a headache—probably due to a lack of caffeine. Grabbing the bags containing the vitamins and the croissant, she tried to shove both in her already full tote.
It wasn’t like her to pick up a breakfast treat and not bring in a box to share with everyone else at work. However, she didn’t necessarily feel very social this morning and just wanted to sneak into her private office and hide behind a mountain of paperwork and a closed door.
Many of Rebekah’s coworkers were more focused on the rescue center’s animals than on the humans who worked there. So hopefully nobody would notice that her entire world was threatening to topple off its axis. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, assuring herself that there was no sign of a pregnancy glow or anything else that might give away her secret before she was ready to disclose it.
Thankfully, it would be easy enough to avoid Grant until she was able to confirm that her pregnancy was real—and had worked out the best way to tell him. She’d already managed to avoid him since their night together, although it helped that he lived in another state. The last contact she’d had from him was the note with his cell number that he’d left the morning he sneaked out of her townhouse.
Not wanting the temptation, she’d immediately thrown the number away without programming it into her own phone. As amazing as he’d made her feel that night, there was no way she could allow a repeat performance of their one-night stand. And even now, there still might not be a reason for her to call him. Her pregnancy wasn’t confirmed yet—not officially. Her father had made his career on giving people advice and was especially fond of the phrase, Don’t borrow tomorrow’s problems today. Rebekah repeated those words in her mind.
Balancing her purse and tote bag on one shoulder, Rebekah grabbed her other two bags and used the thick wedge heel of her espadrille sandal to close the car door behind her.
She took a deep breath before heading toward the entrance and then froze at the sound of the unmistakable deep voice coming from behind her. “Looks like the early bird definitely gets the worm all to himself this morning.”
Grant Whitaker was unfolding his long, athletic frame from some nondescript rental car she hadn’t even noticed in the parking lot. Right this second, he didn’t look so much like an early bird as he did a hawk. Wait. That meant that she would be the worm in this scenario. Although, she couldn’t deny that she was currently trying to slink on by without drawing his deep blue gaze and giving herself away.
The second he gave her that knowing smile, though, her mouth went dry and her tummy went completely topsy-turvy.
Or maybe that feeling was actually her first bout of morning sickness.
Grant Whitaker’s elderly aunts, Birdie and Bunny, loved it whenever he found the time to fly in from Jacksonville to visit them and help out at Furever Paws. Apparently, though, they had kept the details of this visit to themselves. Judging by Rebekah Taylor’s wide-eyed stare and dropped jaw, she had no clue that his aunts had asked him to review the latest marketing plans in order to get more people at their adoption events.
Even if his aunts hadn’t asked for his help, he probably would’ve found another reason to get back to Spring Forest to see Rebekah before long. He hadn’t talked to the no-nonsense director of the animal shelter in more than a month. He’d thought they’d finally turned a corner after sharing a couple of drinks—and much more—that night. She’d been sound asleep when he’d had to leave to catch his flight back to Florida, so he’d left his number in a place where he knew she wouldn’t miss it. And while he hadn’t expected a call the first few days after they’d spent the night together, Grant had been hoping for at least a “see you next time you’re in town” text.
Rebekah Taylor was as straitlaced as they came and had a reputation around the pet shelter for running a tight ship. Or as tight a ship as one could run with the elderly Whitaker sisters in charge. The director was wound so tightly, she reminded Grant of one of those coils that launched like a bouncing spring the second someone released some of the pressure. Several weeks ago, when he’d run into her and her friends at happy hour, he’d ended up being the lucky one who’d helped her unwind.
He’d had a good time that night—better than good, if he was being honest with himself—and he’d thought she’d enjoyed herself, as well. In fact, right this second, his fingers twitched instinctively, as if they were also remembering the way her muscles had clenched against them when he’d brought her to...
Grant’s already sunburned neck grew warm and he had to give his head a quick shake to clear it while Rebekah fumbled with her keys as she tried to unlock the front door.
“Here, can I give you a hand?” he asked as he reached out to take the keys from her. The second his thumb grazed her palm, an electrical current shot through him. As she jerked her arm back, he realized that she must’ve felt it, too.
So the attraction was definitely still there, even if Rebekah was holding her giant tote bag between them like a shield, blocking his view of her full, round breasts. As though he hadn’t already committed to memory the sight of the dark bronze skin framing deep-brown nipples.
She had a death grip on the two white bags in her other hand and blew a curly strand of black hair out of her face. While she didn’t look angry, she also didn’t look very pleased to see him. In fact, the smooth skin at the base of her neck revealed a jumping pulse, making him think the overly controlling office director wasn’t feeling all that in control right this second.
Grant tried to hide his grin at this sudden revelation. Just because she’d let her guard down around him once didn’t mean she’d be willing to do it again. Rebekah was a tough woman to read, but he remembered her slightly tipsy words that night as she’d finished her third mojito after her friends left the bar. “We can’t let anyone know about us drinking together like this. It would be extremely unprofessional for me to socialize with a member of my bosses’ family.”
“Then we probably shouldn’t tell anyone that I’m going to come over to your place when we leave the bar,” he’d replied just before signaling for the check. Her thick lashes had lowered seductively and one corner of her full lips had lifted in invitation. It’d been a bold pickup line from a guy who normally didn’t have to resort to lines to get women, and Grant hadn’t expected it to work with someone as reserved as Rebekah. It turned out that his taking charge that night had worked out extremely well for both of them.
However, something in her hazel eyes—possibly panic—told Grant that he shouldn’t re-create the same take-charge strategy at her workplace. Or in the light of day. He cleared his throat and turned back to the door, jamming the first key he saw into the lock. It only went halfway.
“It’s the third one,” she said, using her chin to nod toward the key ring that had suddenly become slippery in his damp hands. It took another two tries, and when he finally pulled the glass door open, she rushed by him in a cloud of the plumeria scent she always wore—he’d noticed the bottle of expensive lotion on her bathroom counter that night—and headed straight past the empty reception desk and down the hallway leading toward the business offices.
Grant stood there for a few seconds, letting the air-conditioning from inside filter past him to the humid summer heat outside. She hadn’t even thanked him for getting the door, let alone said goodbye. It was one thing to want to keep their personal business on the down low, it was another to completely brush him off. Some of the animal handlers were probably on duty in the back, but since the shelter wouldn’t be open to the public until ten o’clock, there wasn’t anyone in the newly refinished reception area to see them. It was almost as though she wanted to pretend he wasn’t even there.
Grant wasn’t in the habit of having one-night stands with his aunts’ employees—or anyone else, for that matter—so a part of him understood her desire to try to forget the whole thing had ever happened. He’d felt the same way the past few weeks when it had become apparent that she wasn’t going to call him. By avoiding any sort of conversation, Rebekah was actually providing him with the perfect escape, the perfect excuse to avoid any sort of messy emotions or awkward conversations about how things could never work between them.
But the memory of Rebekah’s curves pressed against him and the sound of her throaty moans were too fresh in his mind.
Plus, he still had her keys.
Grant’s flip-flops slapped against the lacquered finish of the concrete floor as he took long strides toward the biggest office. The door was already closed so he gave a brisk knock before twisting the handle and letting himself inside.
Rebekah stood behind her desk, both hands braced on the tidy surface and her chest puffed out, as though she’d been in the middle of some deep breathing exercise before he’d barged in.
Grant didn’t do tension or uncomfortable silences. So when his eyes landed on one of the bags in front of her, he shifted gears to a neutral topic.
“Sutter’s Pharmacy, huh?” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his favorite board shorts and tried to appear as casual as possible. “Are you feeling out of sorts?”
“I’m fine!” Rebekah’s words came out in a squeak and her round eyes grew even larger as they filled with alarm. Whoa. He’d just been trying to lighten the mood. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.
“If you say so. Anyway, I came in here because you forgot your keys,” he said, dangling them in front of his chest. His father had raised him to be a gentleman and he knew the proper thing to do would be to place the key ring with the silver softball charm on her desk. But he couldn’t stop himself from testing to see if the sensation he’d felt from their earlier physical contact had just been a fluke.
Rebekah was a tall woman and easily reached one arm across her desk. When her fingers met his, another flare of heat shot through him. She yanked her hand back so quickly, it knocked one of the white sacks off her tote bag.
There was a rattling sound as something rolled out of the bag and fell to the floor right by his feet.
Rebekah must’ve raced around the desk because she was suddenly diving at the container in front of him. But she wasn’t fast enough. The words on the label flashed in his brain as though they were blinking in neon lights, even after she clutched the bottle to her chest.
Something in his gut twisted, and the air in his lungs suspended. It took him several times to get the words out and his voice sounded far way when he finally asked, “Why are you taking prenatal vitamins?”
