Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Pregnancy is a possible culprit.

My stomach seizes at the word. A creeping sense of foreboding moves through me.

“But that’s impossible,” I blurt out loud, eyes glued to my screen as my pulse kicks into high gear.

Sure, my “just once” with Greyson has turned into a pretty regular thing. The sex is delicious, despite him being a class A-asshole. Hell, maybe that’s part of why it’s so good. Up until now, I’ve never really had hate sex.

I had no clue what I was missing out on.

He is the only guy I’ve been with.

We’ve fucked in backseats. In bathrooms and on building sites. No matter where we are, however, we always, always use condoms.

I do regret not being on some kind of birth control myself. My body didn’t respond well to the pill. I should’ve gotten an IUD inserted at that point, but because I’m a lazy idiot, I kept putting it off. That fills me with such regret now—not being more intentional about keeping my uterus baby-free. Stupidly thinking that trusty (heh) old prophylactics would do the heavy lifting. To my credit, I remember reading somewhere they’re 98% effective or something crazy like that.

I Google condoms. They’re 98% effective when used correctly. I run through every encounter I’ve had with Grey in my head. As far as I can remember, there’s never been a snafu.

Although I cringe when I think about our first hookup—the one where I ripped open the condom packet with my teeth. That wasn’t the only time I did that, either.

Still. 98% means there’s a 2% fail rate. Are we really that unlucky?

The chances that his sperm somehow snuck through all that latex are slim. Then again, this is Greyson Montgomery we’re talking about. If anyone has take-charge-son-of-a-bitch sperm, it’s him. And now that my mind—really, my anxiety—has caught on the possibility, I know I won’t be able to relax until I know for sure.

I take a brisk walk up to the Walgreens on Coming Street. I practically run home. Heart pounding so hard I feel dizzy as I look down to make sure I pee on the test strips and not all over my hand.

A single blue line immediately appears on both tests. Not pregnant.

I let out a breath.

I set the timer on my phone for the recommended three minutes.

Turns out my relief is short lived. Less than a minute later, the second line appears in one screen, then the other, each one forming a cross.

Pregnant.

I start to shake. Hard. Throat swelling. I read the instructions over and over again, hoping that I missed something, that the lines are too faint.

Nope. Even a faint second line—and mine are definitely not faint—means you’re knocked up.

“You idiot,” I say, addressing myself and Greyson and maybe God too. “You big, stupid idiot.”

I throw the cover on the toilet and fall down on it, hard, hand on my head. A hundred emotions slam into me with the force of a hurricane. Shock screaming loudest.

The kind of shock that rocks you to your core.

I’m shaking, full body tremors. My hand slides to my mouth.

It’s not a sure thing, a voice inside my head says. The tests could be wrong.

But I know—in my gut, I just know—that I’m pregnant, and that my arrogant, dickhead boss is the father.* * *“Julia, sit down,” Gracie says, brow furrowed as she pulls out a chair at a table toward the back of her coffee shop, Holy City Roasters. “You look really pale. Are you okay?”

I nod at the chair across from mine. Swallow the lump in my throat.

“You’re gonna want to sit for this too.”

“Uh-oh.” Eva cuts me a glance. “The last time you said that, you were calling to tell me you’d met a French footballer at a discoteca and that the two of you were running away to live, and I quote, ‘that fancy as fuck David Beckham life.’”

Olivia grins. “I’ve heard the stories about that guy.”

I laugh, the tightness in my chest loosening the tiniest bit. I knew calling my girls was the right move, even if I do feel guilty for high jacking their Friday night. I met Gracie through my neighbor Elijah—she’s his younger sister—but the two of us really became close when I was designing the interiors for her shop. Olivia, the author of My Romp With the Rogue, has been my friend since grad school.

Eva I’ve known forever. We met when I was home one summer from college, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. She’s a pit master—a master of the barbecue pit, how cool is that?—and lives in Atlanta now. While she’s not in Charleston all that often, she does come to visit her parents every once in a while. They own a cute barbecue place out on Sullivan’s Island. Lucky for me, she’s in town this weekend.

“Armand will always be the one that got away,” I reply, sighing. “God, he was hot.”