Laura Altom - The SEAL's Baby

“If you say so...” He wasn’t sure how she managed, but after casting him an exaggerated wink and grin, she sashayed right past him and mounted the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be taking off like that,” he urged, staying behind her in case she fell—at least that’s the line he fed himself in order to not feel like a creeper for having accidentally caught himself yet again checking out her behind. “Last thing I need is for you to pull another fainting spell.”

“I won’t,” she said from the top of the stairs, even though her exaggerated breathing told him she was winded.

He opened the door for her, ushering her inside the waiting room that his mom told him used to be the front parlor where Ingrid Mortimer—the former lady of the house—served formal tea every summer Sunday afternoon. He was just debating on whether or not to share the information with Libby, when the doctor’s receptionist, Eloise Hunter, shot out from behind her desk to usher Libby into a wheelchair.

“You poor thing,” Eloise clucked. The woman not only stood six feet tall—not counting her big red hair bun—but she was big around, too. And mean. But then his senior year in high school, she had caught him cutting all the roses from her garden for his latest crush. “Doc Mitchell’s office called and said you’d be coming. We’ve got a room all ready for you.” She glared at Heath, then said, “Your mother told me you dragged this poor girl all the way down Poplar’s Bluff to get Sam. What’s the matter with you?”

Seriously? “I didn’t—”

“Don’t blame him,” Libby said to Eloise with one of her big grins. “I made it to the beach all on my own. I’m probably just a little tired.”

Eloise didn’t look so sure. “Just to be safe, let’s let the doc have a look at you. Can’t be too cautious when there’s a little one involved.” After another pursed-lip glare in Heath’s direction, the receptionist ordered Heath to stay in the empty waiting area while she wheeled Libby off to an exam room.

For the longest time, Heath just sat there, staring at the overly fussy floral wallpaper.

He picked up a tattered copy of People. But the last thing he was interested in was some starlet’s issues with drugs.

A good ten minutes later, Eloise returned. “Libby sure is a pretty little thing. Seems like she has a real sweet spirit.”

“Yeah.” He feigned renewed interest in his magazine.

Ten more minutes passed, then thirty.

He checked on Sam. Found the temperature in the truck still pleasant and the dog lightly snoring.

Back in the waiting area, Heath wasn’t sure what to do with his arms and legs. He felt all squirmy—like a little kid forced to sit too long on a church pew.

What was going on back in that exam room? Was Libby all right? Had she really hurt herself and the baby? If so, was it his fault? He should’ve insisted she stay up at the cabin with his mom. But then hadn’t he told her to go back, and she’d ignored him?

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