Pregnant with the Soldier's Son. Amy Ruttan
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the darkest rims around them so they seemed to make the blue of his irises pop.
It was his eyes that had attracted her to him in the first place. The only difference now was that his dark hair had grown out from the buzz cut of all those months ago.
He’d also aged a bit, but then again war could do that to a person. Still, it was him. Clint. The soldier who had taken her virginity, the man she’d lived a little with.
The man who still haunted her dreams.
And for one brief flicker she could still recall the feel of his hands on her body, his lips on her skin. Those strong, large hands on her throat and in her hair as she moved on top of him, his deep voice in her ear, telling her what to do, encouraging her.
Suddenly it became very hot in the exam room and she knew her cheeks were flushing. She pulled at her collar and tried to dispel from her mind the memories of his naked body tangled with hers.
Though it was hard to do. So hard.
Dr. Allen cleared his throat. “Dr. Walton?” he finally managed to ask.
She couldn’t blame him for being shocked. She’d used a fake name the first and last time they’d met.
“Yes, sorry.” She dragged her gaze away from him and focused on the patient. Her cheeks were heating with a rush of blood and she knew he was still staring at her. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“Dislocated shoulder. The patient, Mr. McGowan, is a bit of a golf fanatic and he insisted on having an ortho specialist reset his shoulder. I didn’t know …” He trailed off and coughed. “We can get another ortho attending down here if reduction—”
“I can reset the shoulder,” she snapped. It was her pregnancy messing with her job again. Once her belly had started to show, other surgeons didn’t think she had it in her to reset bones and dislocated joints. Well, she could still do all of that. She’d show them. In all the hot mess her life had become, one thing she could control was her knowledge, her job. She could manipulate a joint with the best of them.
She moved toward the patient, who was on very strong analgesics and was barely looking at her. She examined the arm. “It doesn’t look too bad. I think a simple reduction will be all it takes. Will you stand on the other side of him, Dr. Allen, and make sure he doesn’t fidget.”
“Of course, Dr. Walton.”
Carefully manipulating the man’s arm, she bent it, flexing it, and with the ease of having done this particular procedure many times popped the joint back into place. Even though the patient was on painkillers, he still cried out.
Ingrid grabbed a sling and secured Mr. McGowan’s arm in it. “He’ll need an X-ray of the arm and chest, just to make sure nothing has broken or punctured from popping it back into place.” Their gazes locked again for one tense moment before she turned her back to him and started writing a script for the patient. “Have the X-rays sent up to ortho for my attention.”
“Of course.”
She glanced at him and smiled, but just briefly. It was very awkward to see him and not talk about the elephant in the room. “I’ll write up my discharge instructions when I have the X-rays.”
Ingrid opened the door to the trauma room and got out of there as fast as she was humanly able to move.
Run. Just run.
Only she wasn’t much of a runner anymore.
She needed to get away. She didn’t want there to be a scene in the hallway of the E.R.
Hadn’t she dealt with enough humiliation?
The questions, the looks as her belly grew?
Everyone knew she was pregnant thanks to a one-night stand. She’d just never thought that the one-night stand would show up as the new trauma attending.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end when she heard the door she’d just shut open quickly and the heavy footsteps of a male gait close in behind her. His hand gripped her elbow and he began to steer her toward a consult room.
“We need to talk,” he whispered in her ear. The mere act of his hot breath fanning against her neck made her shiver with anticipation.
“I’m actually quite busy at the moment, Dr. Allen.”
“I think you can make some time for me.” He escorted her into the consult room, rooms that were used to deliver bad or serious news, and shut the door, pulling the blind down.
Ingrid stood her ground. She wanted to cross her arms, but her belly was in the way. One of the downsides to being only five feet five and having a short torso, the belly took up a lot of room.
Dr. Allen blocked the doorway, and his face was just blank as he stared at her. Ingrid felt like she was in the middle of some Western movie and this was some kind of high noon showdown. She was tempted to shout out “Draw,” but resisted her silliness.
“You’ve let your hair grow,” she said, breaking the unbearable tension that had descended between them.
He cocked his head to one side. “You’ve changed a lot too …”
“Ingrid.”
They’d used protection, but the condom, on her first time ever with a man, had broken.
Stupid Murphy and his freaking laws had been out to get her that night.
Now she was pregnant, alone and scared. Scared she couldn’t give this baby all he or she needed. Terrified of not knowing what the future held.
“I thought it was Philomena?” There was a sarcastic edge to his voice.
“I lied.”
“So I gathered,” he said. Clint’s gaze raked her body from head to toe, finally resting on her rounded belly.
Ingrid fought the urge to cover her belly but instead held her ground.
She was tired of being ashamed of her glaring mistake. She braced herself for a slew of questions.
“I’m not used to people lying to me.”
Ingrid was stunned. That’s what he was ticked about?
“I didn’t know people are always compelled to tell you the truth. Are you telling me all your trauma patients are totally up front with you?”
“What do my patients have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know, Dr. Allen. You brought it up.”
“I was talking about the name, Ingrid. Why did you lie to me about your name?”
“It was a one-night stand. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” Clint snapped.
“I wasn’t looking for a relationship that night. It didn’t matter what I called myself. Now, if my misnomer is all you want to discuss, I’ll be on my way. I have X-rays to examine.” She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm.
“Will you kindly let go of me?”
“We’re not done here.” His eyes were dark, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
Ingrid shrugged out of his grasp. “Oh, I think we are. Unless you have something else to ask me?” She waited, but he didn’t say anything. “I thought not.”
When she turned to leave again, he didn’t grab her but stepped in front of the door.
“Is it mine?”
She wanted to slap him, but reined in her irrational hormonal-induced anger.
“What a foolish question,” she said in a deadpan voice.
Clint crossed his arms. “I don’t think so since you lied about your name.”
“Since