Not Quite Married. Christine Rimmer
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that Clara could put on a paper gown. Dalton went out with her. The doctor came back in alone for the examination and Clara wondered if maybe Dalton had gone.
It was for the best, she decided. He didn’t need to hang around for this. She was fine on her own.
But then he came right back in to hear the doctor’s conclusions.
“Your baby seems to be doing well, no signs of fetal distress,” Dr. Kapur said with a reassuring smile, gazing steadily at Clara—and then turning to share that smile with Dalton.
He’s told my doctor that he’s the father, Clara realized. And somehow, knowing he’d done that both pissed her off—and made her feel like crying. With a little bit of warm fuzziness thrown in for good measure.
Dr. Kapur continued. “But you’ve been pushing too hard, I think. You’re dehydrated and you need rest. To start, I’m going to keep you overnight for observation and then tomorrow we’ll decide where to go from here.”
Clara longed to argue that she was fine and where she wanted to go was home. But if her doctor thought she needed to stay, so be it.
Then they put her in another wheelchair and rolled her to a regular room.
Once they’d had her change into a very ugly pink floral hospital gown—Dalton left the room for that, which she truly appreciated—and made her comfortable in the bed, they offered her lunch. They fed Dalton, too.
After the meal, she tried to get up and get her purse, which Dalton had stuck in the locker across the room.
“Stay in bed,” he commanded, rising to loom over her. And then his dark eyebrows drew together. “Or do you need to use the bathroom?”
“I want my phone.”
“Why?”
“I need to make a few calls.”
“You should rest.”
She only glared at him until he gave in and went and got it for her. She called Renée and said she was fine, but they were keeping her overnight, which meant she most likely wouldn’t be in tomorrow—or if so, not until after the breakfast rush. Renée reassured her that things were under control and told her to take all the time she needed. They said goodbye and Clara started to autodial Rory.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said in a low and gentle tone that still, to her, managed to sound overbearing and superior.
“I am resting. And also making a few necessary calls.”
“You just told your manager that you would be in tomorrow,” he accused.
“No, I said I probably wouldn’t be in. If you’re going to eavesdrop on my conversations, you should listen more closely.”
“There’s no ‘probably’ involved here. You’re not going in tomorrow.”
“We’ll find out about that tomorrow. The decision will be made between me and my doctor.”
“You passed out, Clara. You’ve let yourself get dehydrated.” He cast a baleful look at the bag of clear fluid hanging next to the bed and still connected to the back of her hand. “You need rest. And I’m going to see that you get what you need.”
“Tell me, Dalton. Just when did you become the boss of me?”
He didn’t even have the grace to take a little time to think about it, but shot right back with “This morning. You remember this morning, when you fainted in my arms? That was when I realized that someone has to take care of you or you’re just going to keep on pushing yourself until you do real damage to yourself or the baby.”
Was there even a smidge of truth in any of that? Well, okay. Maybe a little. A very, very little.
And what did he mean, take care of her? He made it sound as if she had become some ongoing project. Surely he wouldn’t be hanging around for that long. He would have to go home to Denver and his banking empire at some point—like in the next hour or two.
Wouldn’t he?
He was glaring at her. She glared right back at him and said with admirable composure, “Here’s a hint. Your attitude needs some serious adjusting, because as of now, I’m not finding being around you the least bit restful.”
He actually blinked. And then he allowed gruffly, “You’re right. I’m upsetting you. I apologize. Will you please put the phone away and settle down?”
The thing was, he looked so sincere in his pompous sort of way. And even if she didn’t want to let herself start to depend on him, she couldn’t help appreciating that he was doing everything he could to look after her.
It was way too little too late. But that was almost as much her fault as his. She’d jumped to conclusions and thought he was married. He’d hired a detective and found out she was getting married. And neither of them had bothered to clear up the misunderstandings until months and months had passed.
Now he’d started to look worried. “I do apologize,” he said again. “I mean that.”
She gave in and muttered, “Apology accepted.” And then put up her forefinger. “One more call. And then I’ll lie back and relax. Promise.”
He shook his head, looking all stuffy and put-upon—but then he shrugged.
She went with the shrug and autodialed Rory, told her about fainting at the café and being stuck in the hospital for observation overnight. After Rory finished saying all the right things about how she was there if Clara needed her and please to take it easy, Clara told her about the really hideously ugly hospital gown she was wearing.
Rory knew right away what she wanted. “I’ll go by the house, get whatever you need and bring it right over there.” Rory had a key to the house, just as Clara had a key to Rory and Walker’s place at the ranch. “You’re at General, right?”
“I’m at General, yes. And here we have yet another reason why you’re my favorite cousin in the whole world. You know what I want without my even having to tell you.”
“Back at you. Let me get a pencil...”
Clara told Rory what to get and Rory wrote it down.
And then Rory said, “I’ll be there. An hour, max.”
They said goodbye. Clara set the phone on the rolling hospital bed table thingy and felt better about everything.
Dalton was watching her, wearing a softer expression than usual, an expression that reminded her of the Dalton she’d known on the island. Which made her feel somehow a little less good about things. Where had that Dalton gone?
He asked, “Was that the cousin who’s a princess, the one who’d planned to live in Colorado someday?”
Had she told him about Rory? “Yes, and now she does live here in Colorado—and how did you know that?”
“You told me on the island.”
“I did? But we didn’t talk about our real lives...” Sadness wrapped around her heart—a glowing kind of sadness. It had been a beautiful two weeks.
A smile twitched at one corner of his way-too-sexy mouth. “We had an agreement not to talk about our real lives, but you didn’t keep it.”
“No,” she admitted. “I guess I didn’t.”
“You were careful about the basics. You never mentioned Justice Creek or that you own a café. But you talked about your family and your friends. All those random things you told me made it a lot easier for that private investigator I hired to find you.”
“You were more careful than I was.” At his nod, she went on. “I had your name, that you lived in Denver and that you were divorced. Luckily, you’re a big shot, so it wasn’t that hard to find you myself once I put my mind to it.”