Chapter 41
Charlotte
Dr. Vale was too good to be true. A fact made obvious by the way every woman in Morrisons did a double-take, their eyes flicking between his Windsor-knot perfection and my swollen belly. I practically preened when their lips pursed in jealous confusion.
Yes, bitches. This Adonis knocked me up.
Never mind that he hadn’t. Let me have this.
The Jaws theme blasted from my phone. Samantha. The woman who knew how to suck the joy out of my life.
“Excuse me one—” I fumbled, accidentally hitting accept instead of decline.
“Charlotte, your father insists you visit. We’d love to meet the baby’s father.” Her syrup-sweet tone made me want to vomit. “Family is so important, don’t you think?”
“Sam, I don’t—”
Dr. Vale plucked the phone from my hand, brushing his fingers against mine.
Swoon.
“We’d be delighted,” he purred.
Silence. Then it came, and I chuckled.
“WHO IS THIS?” Samantha’s screech could’ve shattered glass, but Dr Vale didn’t flinch.
“Dr. Vale. We’re busy. Text Charlotte the details,” he said curtly before he hung up on her.
He handed back my phone, one eyebrow arched. “‘Jaws’? Really?”
Our grins mirrored each other—a perfect, conspiratorial moment.
“You’d really go with me to my dad’s?” I asked, worried he might back out. It would shut Sam up, and I could tell her later that we broke up.
“I specialise in toxic people.” He shrugged, steering my trolley towards my boot. “Also, I’ve read your medical files.”
Of course, he knew how I got pregnant. Duh.
I glanced at my tyre and frowned.
“I think I have a flat,” I sighed, staring at the tyre sagging like a deflated balloon.
The saintly, beautiful, probably-doesn’t-even-poop, Dr Vale crouched to inspect the damage. And oh, what a crouch it was. His trousers pulled taut over an ass so sculpted Michelangelo would weep. I shamelessly shuffled back for a better view.
“It might have been a slow puncture, or you drove on something sharp on your way here.”
I groaned, but my eyes didn’t budge. That ass deserved a Nobel Prize. Firm as—
“Why don't I drop you off at home? It is late, and you need to rest.” He stood up, and his jacket covered his buttocks.
This was a sad ending to a lovely evening.
“Charlotte?”
“Uh, yeah.” I jerked upright, cheeks flaming. “I have roadside recovery. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Sorry for, uh…this.” I gestured vaguely at my car, my life, my mortifying existence.
“Do you need to get anything from your car?”
“No, I’m just glad it happened while the car was parked. There isn't a parking time limit in this car park, so it should be good for the night.”
“These things happen,” he murmured, walking back to get my trolley.
We walked to his car, a slick black Bentley. I watched him put our bags in the boot, but when I reached the trolleys to put them away, he snatched them from me and strode off to put them away. Unfortunately, I didn't see either buttock in the process.
As I buckled into his car, the scent of his cologne wrapped around me—clean, clinical, with a hint of something metallic.
“You smell like a hospital,” I teased.
“I like the smell of hospitals,” he said, checking my belt before reaching for his.
We didn't move after the engine began to purr, and I glanced at him.
“I need your address.”
“Oh, God. Of course,” I said, rattling off the address.
The man must think I was a lunatic, but he was too much of a gentleman to say it.
◆◆◆
Dr. Vale carried all my bags upstairs like some chivalrous knight, though I was pretty sure knights didn’t have biceps that could crack walnuts or a stare that made my knees weak. I took my time, careful with every step, my pre-eclampsia fears making me move like a tortoise on sedatives.
Then I saw it.
Tom’s mailbox.
Bursting with letters, flyers spilling out like confetti. Strange. Tom never went anywhere without telling me. He was the kind of neighbour who watered my plants and complained about my recycling habits.
Where was he?
A throat cleared behind me—deep, smooth, expectant. I turned, but at five-foot-nothing, my gaze landed squarely on his tie. That damn Windsor knot, so perfect it looked photoshopped. Cobalt blue and black, like a bruise in silk.
I forced my eyes upward, past the crisp collar, the strong jaw, until—
His lips.
Succulent was the only word. The kind of lips that made you wonder if kissing him would feel like sin or salvation. These hormones were killing me.
“Thank you, Dr. Vale,” I stammered.
A slow smile curved that sinful mouth. “We spent the night together, and I’m meeting your parents. I think you can call me Elliot now.”
My brain short-circuited. Spent the night? We’d shared a grocery trip, not a bed. But before I could correct him—
“Doyouwantcoffee?” The words tumbled out in a jumbled mess.
He nodded, then hit me with the kill shot.
“Do you want to hear his heartbeat? I have my stethoscope in my car.”
Yes, we could play doctors and nurses.
“Yes, please,” I croaked, then immediately wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
Did I just sound like a bad porno?
And why was my brain suddenly supplying filthy images of Dr. Vale—Elliott pressing that stethoscope to places definitely not medically necessary?
He smirked, as if he could hear every depraved thought, and turned toward the stairwell. I groaned for the second time that night before I began to put the perishables away. At least I had ground coffee beans for him. It was the least I could do for him since he had been so kind to me.
◆◆◆
The coffee was long gone, but the warmth of Elliot’s hands lingered as I lay on the couch, his stethoscope gliding over my belly like a divining rod searching for gold.
Then he froze. A smile lit up his face, brighter than I’d ever seen. God, this man loved babies. Loved his job. Loved—
Wait. Why isn’t he handing me the stethoscope?
“Elliot?” My voice wavered. “Is everything okay?”
For a split second, something dark flickered in his eyes. Resentment?
But it vanished so fast I convinced myself that I’d imagined it.
“He’s perfect,” he whispered, not to me, but to my stomach, his lips nearly brushing my skin.
Okay. Weird.
But then he handed me the stethoscope, and I heard galloping horses. That’s what my son’s heartbeat sounded like. Loud. Strong. Alive. Silent tears streaked my cheeks. After weeks of fear, of pre-eclampsia and induction dates, this was all that mattered.
“I’m not going to my dad’s,” I sniffed. “Not this close to my induction date. Sam would probably hex my son.”
Elliot’s fingers brushed my knee. “I don’t mind going with you after he’s born.”
My head snapped up.
Was he serious?