“Sure I do, but we’re not telling them until we know everything is okay. I don’t know of a good obstetrician—do you?”
I shake my head.
“Then Stuart it is.”
“How exactly will Stuart know about obstetricians? He might be gay, but he hasn’t magicked up a vagina overnight that I know of.”
That gets a smile out of him. A small one, but it’s a start.
“Because, smart-ass, there isn’t anything Stuart doesn’t know or can’t find out. That’s why I pay him so well.”
Lifting my hand from his, I say, “Okay, well, just don’t tell him I’m pregnant. Tell him I’m having women’s problems.”
Not only do I want to tell my parents first, I don’t want anyone to know about the baby until I know everything is okay.
I wasn’t worried before Jake said something. But now…now I’m terrified there could be something wrong with the baby.
Three hours later, Jake and I are sitting in the office of Dr. Suzanne Kline, doctor to the rich and famous and the best obstetrician money can buy.
Her receptionist let us into her office. She looked less than happy to be working on a Saturday, but the instant she saw Jake walk in behind me, her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
She seated us in Dr. Kline’s office, with the offer of a drink, telling us that Dr. Kline would be with us shortly.
I have to say it’s the nicest doctor’s office I have ever been in.
It’s light and airy, all cream and beige. I’m sitting in the comfiest leather chair I’ve ever sat in, in front of a huge mahogany desk that looks like it cost more than I earn in a year. There’s a sofa in the corner resembling the one we have at home, and there are pictures of babies everywhere. I’m guessing famous babies.
My child is going to be famous.
Crap. I hadn’t even registered that fact. Sometimes I forget Jake is famous. Even though it’s thrust into my face on a daily basis, I still just think of him as Jake Wethers, my best friend and boy next door.
Our child is going to be famous simply for the fact Jake is.
The baby’s not going to have the chance for a normal childhood like I had.
It’s going to live its life accompanied by bodyguards, safety always a cause for concern.
I’m going to have to talk to Jake about this. I want our child to have as normal a life as possible. I know he’ll want that too, so we’re going to have to figure out a way to make it happen.
Jake hasn’t sat still since we arrived. I can feel nerves and tension radiating off him. I have never seen him this worked up before. It’s freaking me out.
I rest my hand on his thigh, settling his jigging leg.
He looks at me, giving me a tight smile.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, trying to sound convincing, even though I am less than confident myself. I become even more so as the minutes pass.
“I hope so,” he utters. “I really hope so.” He takes my hand, bringing it to his mouth, and brushes a kiss over my knuckles.
It’s at this point Dr. Kline finally makes her appearance.
Imagine the one doctor you wouldn’t want in the same room as your hot, ex-womanising, rocker boyfriend. Well, yeah, that’s Dr. Suzanne Kline.
She is tall, early thirties, I’d say, long blonde hair that is tied back in a sleek ponytail. She’s wearing high-waisted blue jeans that only stick-thin people can wear, with a button-up white shirt tucked in, which sits just perfectly around her perfect-size chest. No gaping buttonholes for her.
Basically, she’s gorgeous. And I hate her instantly.
Remind me to kick the crap out of Stuart when we get home.
She may be the best OB/GYN in LA, but I would have rather settled for the second best, even the third, as long as they didn’t look anything like her.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” she says, advancing across the room toward us.
Reaching her hand out to me, I spot her perfect manicure and cringe at my chipped red nail varnish.
“I’m Dr. Suzanne Kline,” she says. “But please just call me Suzanne.”
“Trudy Bennett,” I reply. But please just call me Ms. Bennett, I’m tempted to say just to be a bitch.
I bite my tongue, hard.
Turning to Jake, she releases her hand from mine and offers it to Jake. He takes it. “Jake Wethers,” he says.
“I know who you are, Mr. Wethers.” She presses her lips into a quirked smile, looking a little shy, and I see her eyes have widened in his gaze. In this instant she looks like one of his groupies.
I hate the effect he has on women. She’s a smart, successful doctor, one who comes in contact with celebrities on a regular basis, yet one touch and a look from Jake and she’s a teenage girl again.
I think I may vomit.
“Jake, please,” he says, and he sounds so smooth that I have the urge to slap him up the back side of his head.
Releasing her hand, he instantly takes hold of my hand again, pulling it to rest in his lap.
I feel like giving a smug smile, but I don’t. I know I’m being irrational, I know that Jake only has eyes for me, but I hate the way she was looking at him. I take a quick glance at her left hand as she makes her way around the desk to her chair.
It’s a yes on the wedding ring. But when has the little matter of having a husband ever stopped women from trying to get into Jake’s pants?
“Please excuse my attire,” she says in her sexy American twang, gesturing to her clothes as she sits down. “I came straight from family brunch.”
“Sorry to pull you away,” Jake says. “But I wanted Tru to see a doctor today.”