CHAPTER THIRTEEN TINSLEY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TINSLEY
Everything is going great. Or, at least, it was until this morning.
I wake up to the sound of the ranch coming alive outside the window and lie there for a moment in the particular warmth of Hudson’s bed, thinking that all is fine.
Then the ceiling tilts, and I barely have time to rush to the bathroom before puking up my guts.
Thank God, Hudson had an early morning flight to Dallas for a meeting, so he misses the whole thing.
Once it’s all over, I feel much better, so I figured there’s no harm in going to work.
Which turns out to be a big freaking mistake.
By lunchtime, my body decides to stage a coup, and the lobby at Montoya Investments is the primary battleground.
It starts as a low-grade hum of nausea at my desk, the kind I tried to blame on the extra espresso I drank on the way to work, but has quickly escalated into a full-blown internal riot.
The fluorescent lights overhead seem to pulse with a malicious, rhythmic throb, vibrating against my temples.
When it gets to be too much to handle, I decide to grab a bottle of water.
I push through the heavy swinging door of the break room, needing a second to breathe, to convince myself that I'm just coming down with the flu. Instead, I’m hit by a wall of scent so aggressive it feels like a physical shove to the chest. Someone who clearly lacks basic human empathy has decided to microwave leftover salmon.
The smell is pungent, oily, and thick enough to chew.
It wraps around my throat like a cold hand, and my stomach doesn't just churn; it heaves.
The metallic tang of sudden saliva coats my tongue, a warning sign that the battle is already lost. I don't even have time to offer a sharp word to the culprit sitting at the corner table, blissfully unaware of the biological warfare they've just unleashed.
I turn on my heel and sprint, my heels clicking frantically against the marble.
I make it to the bathroom just as the first wave hits.
I barely have time to kick the stall door shut before I'm on my knees, my polished professional veneer dissolving into the cold, clinical reality of throwing up in Montoya Investments’ bathroom.
It's violent and exhausting, the kind of sickness that leaves your eyes watering and your throat burning with the sting of bile.
I clutch the edges of the stall, my knuckles turning white against the shiny metal.
I sit back on my heels, the cool marble of the floor seeping through my slacks, providing a momentary anchor in the chaos. My breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches. The fluorescent lights in here hum with a relentless, buzzing energy that makes the spots in my vision dance.
A terrifying thought flickers at the edge of my mind, small and insistent.
I try to brush it away, to categorize it as stress or a lingering stomach bug from the rainy night with Hudson, but my brain is already doing the math.
I'm a careful person. I document things. I track my cycles with precision. And I’m regular as clockwork.
I count the days in my head, then count them again, hoping the numbers will shift.
They don't. Fourteen days. Two weeks. I’m never two weeks late.
A heavy, sinking weight settles into the center of my chest. I stare at the speckled gray pattern of the stall door, the silence of the restroom suddenly feeling like a vacuum sucking the air right out of my lungs.
I stand up, my legs feeling like they're made of wet cardboard. I wash my face with freezing water, watching my reflection in the spotted mirror. Damn. I look like hell.
I leave work early, offering a vague excuse about a migraine to my supervisor.
She doesn't question me because I look like a ghost wandering the halls of a Victorian estate.
The drive to the corner store on the edge of Silver Spoon Falls is a blur of rural scenery and internal static.
I turn up the air conditioning to full and let it blast against my face to keep the nausea at bay.
Every mile I drive feels like I'm moving toward a cliff I can't avoid.
Inside the store, the air-conditioning is set to a frigid level, making me shiver as I navigate the aisles.
I head straight for the medication section, my hand trembling as I reach for the box with the most expensive, digital promise of certainty.
I don't want a faint blue line I have to squint at; I want a word.
A clear, undeniable declaration of my fate.
I pay for it with a stony expression, the plastic box tucked into my bag like a ticking bomb.
I rush over to my apartment to take the test. I fumble my keys so hard I nearly drop the test on the stairs. By the time I get inside, I’m shaking. Dizzy. I want to breathe, but I can’t get air past the taste still lingering in my throat.
I lock the door. Tear the box open with shaking hands. I read the instructions three times just to be sure. Then I take the test and lay it on the bathroom counter.
There’s a stupid digital hourglass blinking at me from the tiny window. Three minutes. An eternity.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees, face in my hands. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I can’t handle this alone. Not now. Not with the room tilting on its axis and my entire life possibly changing.
I look at the time and realize Hudson’s plane should be landing at any moment. Not wanting to worry him, I pull out my phone and text him.
Me
I ran back to my apartment to grab a few things. I won’t be long.
The response is damn near immediate. I picture him in an airport lounge, suit jacket off, eyes on his phone, but jaw set like always.
Hudson
I’ll be there in an hour or so. Is everything okay?
Okay is a relative term. I look at the test and it says “Pregnant.” No squinting, no hesitation. Just black letters, sharp as a knife. The world stops. Then flips over and starts again.
Another message from Hudson comes through.
Hudson
Are you okay????
I hate to worry him, so I send back a quick, mostly truthful message.
Me
I’m fine. I’ll see you soon.
I spend the next ten minutes just staring at the word on the pregnancy test. Pregnant. Like the universe took a red Sharpie and underlined my whole existence twice, maybe three times, just to make sure I get the point. My hands won't stop shaking. I take a breath. Then another. Still shaking.
Get it together, Tinsley. Happiness, excitement, fear, and terror all combine together deep in my soul, leaving me totally confused.
I wipe my face. Grip the sink. I glance in the mirror and realize I look like a mess with my mascara smudged, my hair half out of its tie, and my skin is so pale, I could moonlight as a vampire.
I want to panic, but there’s no time for that.
I dry my hands, dig a tote bag out from behind the bathroom door, and shove a few things I don’t really need into it along with the test stick.
Outside, the sky is acid blue, and the sun is blinding. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes and head straight for the Corolla.
The drive out to Carrington Ranch takes twelve minutes, which feels like forever. By the time I hit the long gravel drive, my foot is shaking so bad I almost miss the turn.
I pull up and see Hudson’s big black truck sitting in the front driveway.
My heart beats so loud it pounds in my ears.
After parking, I take a deep breath and force myself out of the car.
My knees almost buckle, but I somehow make it up the path, every step punctuated by the anxious riot in my chest.
I step in the door and Hudson walks around the corner. His eyes sharpen the second he sees me standing in the doorway.
"You're pale," he says, his voice dropping into that low, protective register that used to irritate me and now just makes me want to lean into him. He reaches out, his thumb catching my chin to tilt my face toward the light. "And you're shaking. What happened?"
"It's just been a long day," I lie, but the words feel thin, like parchment paper.
I can't look at him. If I look at him, he'll see the math written in my eyes.
Hudson doesn't just see people; he assesses them.
He knows the exact rhythm of my breath and the specific way I bite my lip when I'm hiding something.
"Tinsley," he says, and it's not a question. It's a command for honesty. "Tell me what's wrong."
I let out a shaky laugh and wrap my arms around his waist. “I think… I think I might be pregnant.”
The silence that follows is absolute. I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t disappoint me. The tension in his jaw vanishes, replaced by a look so soft and hopeful it actually hurts to see. It's as if a light has been switched on inside him.
"A baby," he says, the word sounding like a prayer. His hand comes up to cup my cheek with a tenderness that makes my throat close. "That’s fucking great. I can’t wait to have at least six or seven kids with you."
"Six or seven?" I ask, my voice cracking, the tears I've been holding back finally pricking at my eyelids. "I think we’re going to have to start with the one and see where things go."
He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin. The world outside the truck disappears. "That sounds like a plan to me. I want to spend my life with you, Tinsley. All of it. The messy, unplanned, terrifying parts included. We’ll do it together."
He drops to his knees right there in the front hall, his large hands coming out to rest flat against my stomach.
He just leans his head against me, his breath hitching in a way that tells me he's closer to tears than he'd ever admit.
I can feel the warmth of his palms through my shirt, a steady, pulsing heat that seems to calm the storm inside me.
"We're going to be a family," he whispers against the fabric of my shirt, his voice muffled but certain.
"I've got you, Tinsley. I've got both of you.
I promise you, on everything I own and everything I am, you'll never have to do this alone.
You're not losing part of your life. We're starting a new one. "
I reach down, my fingers tangling in his sandy hair, anchoring myself to him as the world shifts beneath us. He looks up at me, his hazel eyes clear and unwavering, offering me a partnership that isn't about control or surrender, but about sharing the weight of everything that comes next.