Red Hot Winter - K. Webster Page 0,34

he realizes I’m serious, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I need August to get home already,” I sob. “I need to go to the hospital.”

“Honey,” Dad coos. “I think you’re having an anxiety attack.”

“Dad, I’m sick!” I screech, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. As if to attest to this, my stomach clenches and I nearly pass out from a wave of dizziness.

“Jesus,” he curses. “Come here. I’ve got you.”

He helps me out to his car and then he fires up his engine. I sit in the passenger seat with my unopened envelope now sitting in my purse. My phone buzzes and it’s Jenna texting me.

Jenna: Did you pass? Are we celebrating with margaritas tonight? Dad’ll watch the kids when he gets off his shift in another hour.

I swipe away my tears and reply back.

Me: Raincheck. I’m headed to the hospital. Something’s not right.

She replies begging me to call her as soon as I know something and I promise that I will. Dad pulls into the ER lot and helps me out. As I hobble in to check in, I can hear him calling August. It just makes me cry harder.

Dr. Goddamn He’s Hot comes trotting down the corridor looking like one of those hot daddy doctors from that old show ER. He’s taken, I’m taken, and I’m friends with his daughter. I can still appreciate a fine looking man.

“I’ve got it,” he tells the receptionist as he guides me past the empty waiting room into the first room in the emergency area. “What’s going on, Winter?”

I tell him everything. The stress. The chronic sinus infections. The anxiety. My failed meals that make everyone sick. I probably gave myself ulcers. Bleeding ulcers probably. Oh God, what if my stomach is filling with blood as we speak?

A loud, horrible sob rattles from me. He calls for a nurse who draws some blood and then guides me to the bathroom. They ask me to pee in a cup and then once I’m done with that, I settle into the bed. Both Dr. Goddamn He’s Hot—or Dr. Venable if you want to get technical—and the nurse leave me momentarily. Dad stays perched beside the bed, a worried look on his face.

“If you’ll just open the letter, you’ll feel better,” he says.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

He starts to part his mouth to say something, but the curtain gets yanked aside so hard, I worry it might come out of the ceiling. August, brows furrowed with worry, stalks into the room.

“What’s wrong?” he demands in that filthy courtroom voice that never fails to turn me on.

Suddenly, I feel marginally better.

I think about how he woke me up this morning. With his tongue. In places no tongue should go. God, he is so dirty sometimes.

“She got the results,” Dad tattles.

August frowns. “You failed?”

“Of course not,” I snap. “Well, I mean, technically I don’t know. But I know the law better than you. I know I passed.”

Dad and August share a smirk. Then, August saunters over to my purse and yanks out the envelope. He rips it open. Just pulls off the proverbial Band-Aid. I watch his expression for any tells. He remains impassive as he hands it over to me.

I stare at the words, unbelieving.

Passed.

“You passed, sweetheart,” Dad says gently. “Congrats. Now you can calm down.”

But something’s still not right. I twist my giant diamond around my wedding finger. It’s a nervous habit that drives August nuts. He grabs my hand and pulls it to him so I’ll stop my fidgeting. His eyes are unusually soft as he regards me.

“Tony, she just needs some water. Can you go grab her a bottle?” August asks, his eyes never leaving mine.

Dad nods and kisses me on the top of my head before leaving. August sits beside me and threads our fingers together.

“You know I love you no matter what,” he says, his brows furling together.

A spike of panic rises up inside of me. Why is he being so weird? “Y-Yeah.”

“I made vows to you six years ago that I’d be there with you through it all.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Even when you lose your shit.”

“Excuse me?” I hiss, no longer feeling sweet and loving toward him. “I am not losing my shit!”

“Not yet,” he mutters.

Dr. Venable walks in wearing a cheesy grin on his face. “Winter…”

Oh God.

“Here we go,” August says to no one. “Five, four, three, two…”

“You’re perfectly healthy,” Dr. Venable says. “And pregnant.”

“And the shit is officially lost,” August says to me.

“I’M WHAT?!” I screech.