One Moment Please: A Surprise Pregnancy Standalone (Wait With Me #3) - Amy Daws Page 0,1

hand them over, our fingers brushed, and I felt a gust of air blow right between my legs. The moment was ruined when I looked down to see that I had yanked the tubes out of the tank, and it was blowing fresh O2 right in my special place. Not quite the same as fainting in the arms of a hot and sweaty mechanic, which is literally what happened to Kate.

Regardless, I deserve a reward for my accomplishment today. I push my computer and textbooks to the side and reach for the beautiful slice of French silk pie that I saved for this exact moment. I’ve come to cherish this delicious treat at the Boulder Medical Center cafeteria. They usually sell out before I get here, but somehow, I managed to nab the last slice today.

I rarely let myself indulge in sugar like this. My mom was a total health nut and wouldn’t let my sister or me eat anything that didn’t come from our garden. Apparently, supermarkets are crawling with pesticides and germs, and we were busy following the biblical diet of Christ.

It took rooming with Kate in college to indulge in my first Oreo cookie, and I’ve cursed her ever since. I gained twenty pounds my freshman year, and for someone who’s only five feet four, that was not a good look for me.

After graduation, I found a balance with sugar and lost the extra pounds. Well…fifteen of them, at least. When I decided to quit my job in social work and go back to school for my master’s in psychology, French silk pie became my new bestie. Pie is much more mature than Oreos. Pie and beautifully constructed charcuterie boards. Those two items are my weakness now, and the direct reason my ass does that jiggling thing whenever I jog.

My fork pierces the graham cracker crust just as a lunch tray crashes onto my table. My eyes go wide. The owner of the obnoxious tray is the perpetually angry doctor who’s been ruining the mood in the cafeteria for months now. I mean…I’m pretty sure he’s a doctor. He always has a stethoscope around his neck and wears blue scrubs with a white lab coat. That’s very doctory, right? People jump when he barks, and that seems doctory too.

Regardless, this is the hot, seemingly always grumpy doctor who glares at me from across the cafeteria. I noticed him right away when I found my little writing haven because there’s no way not to notice a gorgeous asshole like him. A cross between Chris Hemsworth and Gerard Butler—and I’m pretty sure he has the body to back up that comparison. He really should have his own Instagram page, if he doesn’t already, because I’d follow the shit out of that!

He’s the type of guy who rarely ever smiles. At first, I figured that might be judgy of me because he probably just has a lot on his mind. Hell, for all I know, he could have a terminally ill patient or be in search of the cure for a flesh-eating virus that the rest of the world doesn’t even know about. I wanted to cut the guy some slack for his decidedly surly attitude toward the world because well…he’s hot! Hot guys get hall passes—they don’t teach that in grad school, but they should.

But then, his anger seemed directed toward me. I swore he’d scan the entire cafeteria, and when our eyes would connect, his resting dick face would morph into a murderous glower. It’s freaky! I kept waiting for him to approach, thinking maybe this is some kind of kinky foreplay, but he always just watched me from a distance like a tiger stalking his prey. It’s unnerving.

And hell, I have to admit…kinda hot! My Womanizer Pro40 got some good use out of those eye-fucking sessions.

Angry hot-scrubs lowers his giant frame onto the seat across from me, all the while scowling at the food on his tray. A sad sub sandwich wrapped tightly in plastic props up a bruised apple. Even his water bottle lacks condensation…must be warm.

Poor dickish yet delicious doctor with sad food.

With a huff, he tears off the wrapping and rips open a packet of Miracle Whip.

My nose wrinkles.

What kind of animal prefers Miracle Whip over mayonnaise?

I hesitantly let go of where my fork sticks erect from my pie and rub my sweaty palms over my denim-clad thighs as he artfully spreads Miracle Whip over his sub and then slathers on mustard. I can’t