Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dominic returned twenty-eight minutes later—I’d been keeping track without quite knowing why—carrying a bag from Fifth Street Deli that smelled like heaven.
I practically lunged for it. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” he said, setting the bag on the counter with a slightly bemused expression. “Though I have to say, the guy at the deli is extremely talkative. I thought I was just picking up sandwiches, but I got the full run-down about the district’s history.”
“Which guy?” I asked, already tearing into the my monte cristo. The raspberry jam on sourdough was perfect, exactly what I needed.
“David. David Kowalski, I think?” Dominic pulled out his own sandwich.
“Oh, David’s great. He’s married to Margie Patterson’s daughter.” I took another bite, practically groaning at how good it tasted. “What was he going on about?”
“Apparently everyone in the district is talking about Thomas.” Dominic unwrapped his sandwich, watching me devour mine with obvious amusement. “David said people have been coming in all week with theories and memories. The whole Historical Society crowd is buzzing.”
I paused mid-bite. “What kind of theories?”
“The usual small-town speculation, from what I could tell. Who Thomas knew, who he worked with, why someone would have wanted him gone.” Dominic took a bite of his own sandwich.
“David mentioned that his wife’s family has been in the district forever.
Her mother—Margie—used to be a nurse back in the seventies, worked for Dr. James. ”
“Nurse Margie,” I said, recognition flooding through me. “Margie Patterson. She lives at Millcrest Meadows now—the assisted living community on Oak Street.”
Dominic reached for his chips—regular potato chips, not the salt and vinegar ones I’d claimed. “He did say she told his wife that she wishes she could have done more back then.”
My investigative instincts perked up immediately. “Did Thomas confide in her?”
“According to David’s secondhand account from his wife, maybe?” Dominic pushed his regular chips toward me when he noticed me eyeing them. “Want one?”
“Just one.” I took a chip, the classic salty crunch satisfying in a different way than my vinegar ones. “Did David say what exactly Margie knew?”
“Nothing specific. Just that she mentioned Thomas came to see Dr. James for something, and Margie was worried about him. Said he seemed troubled in those last few weeks.” Dominic’s expression grew more thoughtful.
“Though I’m not sure how much she can legally tell us, even now. HIPAA protections and all that.”
I nearly choked on my chip. “You’re worried about HIPAA violations? You and Blake literally staged a hostile corporate takeover? Remember that?”
“That was legal,” Dominic said primly. “Ruthless, but legal. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, so you draw the line at medical privacy laws?”
“I draw the line at federal violations that could get a nice elderly nurse in trouble,” he corrected, reaching over and stealing one of my salt and vinegar chips with zero remorse.
“Hey!” I pulled the bag protectively closer. “Those are mine!”
“Community property,” he said, popping it in his mouth and making a face at the intensity. “We’re practically married.”
“We’re not married yet, and even if we were, the baby wanted that chip.” I cradled my chip bag dramatically. “You’re stealing from your own child.”
Dominic laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Fine. I’ll buy you an entire bag when we pick up flowers for Nurse Margie.”
“Flowers?”
“You said she’s in assisted living. People always appreciate visitors who bring something.” He checked his watch. “We have time to stop at Henderson’s Flower Shop after your doctor’s appointment. Get her a nice arrangement, and maybe some chocolates.”
“You’re going to bribe an elderly nurse with flowers and chocolate to get around HIPAA?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m going to be polite and respectful to an elderly woman who might have information that could help solve Thomas’ murder,” Dominic corrected.
“What she chooses to share is entirely up to her. And if she happens to mention things she remembers from before HIPAA was enacted in 1996, well…” He shrugged.
“That’s just conversation between concerned community members. ”
“HIPAA was enacted in 1996,” I repeated slowly. “Thomas died in 1973.”
“Exactly.” Dominic’s smile turned slightly smug.
“So while she’d be bound by professional ethics and patient confidentiality in a general sense, there are no actual federal privacy violations involved in discussing care from over fifty years ago, especially for a deceased patient whose case is now part of an active murder investigation. ”
I stared at him. “You researched medical privacy law while picking up sandwiches?”
“I looked it up on my phone while David was telling me about his daughter’s soccer tournament.” Dominic stood, reaching for my hand. “Now finish your chips—all of them, since apparently our baby needs them—and let’s go to this appointment. I have a heartbeat I need to hear.”
I let him pull me to my feet, still clutching my precious salt and vinegar chips. “An entire bag?”
“An entire bag,” he confirmed. “Maybe two, if you behave yourself at the doctor’s office.”
“I always behave myself.”
“You climbed a twelve-foot ladder while three months pregnant approximately forty-five minutes ago.”
“That was different.”
“Mmhmm.” But his hand was warm on my lower back, guiding me toward the door.
Dr. Westfield’s office was in one of the newer medical buildings on the outskirts of the Historical District, right where it transitioned into Downtown Millcrest. The entire structure was modern glass and steel—a far cry from the old Victorian houses that dominated the area—with efficient fluorescent lighting and that distinctive medical office smell of antiseptic and new carpet.
Dominic held my hand as we checked in with the receptionist, his thumb rubbing circles on my palm. His scent was calm but alert, that underlying alpha protectiveness humming just beneath the surface.
“Third visit,” the receptionist said cheerfully, updating my chart. “And this time you brought the father! How wonderful.”
I felt Dominic’s pride spike through our bond, his hand tightening possessively on mine.
“He was… unavoidably detained for the first two,” I said carefully.
The receptionist’s smile remained professional and warm. “Well, I’m sure Dr. Westfield will be happy to finally meet you both together. She’s running just a few minutes behind, so if you’ll have a seat…”
We settled into the waiting room chairs—comfortable, modern ones with clean upholstery.
“Nervous?” I asked quietly.
“Terrified,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Hey.” I covered his hand with mine. “Everything’s been fine so far. The nausea’s easing up, I’m not spotting, all the signs are good.”
“I know. But I wasn’t there for the first two appointments.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve seen the sonogram picture, but that’s not the same as being here.”
“You couldn’t help not being there the first time,” I said softly. Then I paused, guilt twisting in my chest. “The second time… that was on me. I was too scared to tell you.”
Dominic’s fingers interlaced mine, his thumb brushing over my skin soothingly. “It’s okay. We’re here together now. That’s what matters.”
“But you missed—”
“Leo.” He turned to look at me fully, his steel-gray eyes intense. “It’s okay. I understand why you were hesitant to tell me. And we’re moving forward together now. That’s all I care about.”
The forgiveness in his voice, the lack of recrimination, made my chest tight. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He pressed a kiss to my temple before turning his attention to my stomach, his hand going to rest protectively over our baby.
“Mr. Sterling-Hart?” A nurse appeared in the doorway—young, efficient, with a tablet in hand. “And Mr. Steele. Come on back.”
We followed her down the modern hallway, past examination rooms with digital displays and the most up-to-date medical equipment. She led us to room five, took my vitals with quick efficiency, and promised Dr. Westfield would be in shortly.
After she left, I started changing into the examination gown. Dominic helped with the ties, his hands gentle but sure. There was something intimate about it—not sexual, just… tender. Taking care of me.
“I hate these gowns,” I muttered. “They’re designed to make you feel as vulnerable as possible.”
“You look perfect.” Dominic’s hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing gentle circles.
“I look like I’m wearing a paper bag.”
“A very attractive paper bag.” He pressed a kiss to my temple.
Before I could respond, Dr. Westfield knocked and entered. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. A blue and white striped dress peeked from beneath her crisp white coat.
“Leo, good to see you.” Her smile was genuine, warm. Then she turned to Dominic, extending her hand. “And you must be Dominic Steele. I’m very pleased to finally meet you. I’ve been treating your mate for several weeks now, and I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” Dominic said, shaking her hand with that corporate polish that never quite left him.
“Well.” Dr. Westfield’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Yes, all generally positive.”
She washed her hands at the sink, then pulled up my chart on the computer screen. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Steele. It’s always better when we can have both parents involved in the prenatal care.”
She turned to me, her expression professional. “How are you feeling, Leo? Any concerns since last visit?”
“The nausea’s better,” I reported. “Not gone completely, but manageable. I’m tired a lot, but that’s normal, right?”
“Very normal for first trimester. You’re at thirteen weeks now, so you’re just entering the second trimester. Most omegas find their energy returns around this time.” She gestured for me to lie back on the examination table. “Any cramping? Spotting? Unusual pain?”