Calamity Rayne Knocked Up (Calamity Rayne #4)

2. Doctors & Their Bedside Manner

Doctors & Their Bedside Manner

“ I t’s been over a year, Doc. Something’s wrong.”

My OBGYN stilled with only one foot in the door and my chart suspended in his hand. “Rayne. Hello.”

I planted my hands in the lap of my paper gown and gave him a moment to enter the room and get situated.

He scrolled through my records as he sat on the wheely stool. “Date of your last menstrual cycle?”

“The twentieth to the twenty-eighth.” I’d just recited all this information to the nurse and it annoyed me that I needed to go over this crap again. There had to be some malfunction with my ovaries or uterus. I was sure something was wrong and that was what we should be discussing.

“Any lifestyle changes?”

“Well, there’s been a lot more tension in the bedroom.”

“It’s important that you stay relaxed during intercourse. Have you been taking the vitamins?”

“Yes.”

He set the digital chart aside and stood to wash his hands. “Let’s have a look.”

God, I hated this part.

“Feet up.”

I reclined on the paper-covered table, my ass hanging dangerously close to the edge of the table as he snapped on his gloves. Between the table, my gown, and the modesty blanket, there was so much damn paper I felt like a piece of origami. Every muscle twitch was amplified by the obnoxious crumpling.

“Scoot a little lower, please. A little more. Again.”

For the love of God! The gown crinkled as I scooched as close to the table's edge as humanly possible. Another inch, and I’d be on the floor. And there went the blaring light.

I stared at the ceiling so not to blind myself as he scoped out Main Street. “Did you rob a stadium for that thing?”

A courtesy chuckle. “A little pressure.”

He inserted the speculum, and I grunted. If men had to have their private parts pried open, I bet they wouldn’t call it a little pressure. And they’d certainly design more ergonomically comfortable tools than the vagina jack is currently cranking open my cooch.

“Nice weather we’ve been having.”

Why did gynecologists get chatty the moment they were staring up your hoo-hah? “Yup.”

“Have you been timing your intercourse with your ovulation?”

“Yes, but that’s not helping matters in the bedroom.” Some nights, I got so neurotic I might as well have brought a stopwatch and worn a whistle around my neck. “The calendars are sort of a mood killer.”

“Trying to conceive can be emotionally challenging, especially when faced with difficulties.”

Difficulties? Did he find something alarming? Did he know something I didn’t know?

He wheeled back and removed his glove with a snap. “It’s important to have a strategy for coping with the stress. There are a lot of emotions associated with procreation. You can sit up.”

I lowered my feet from the stirrups and scooted back, my gown crinkling with the subtlety of a frying pan falling down a flight of stairs. “You said difficulties. What did you mean by that?”

“Only that patience is a virtue and a difficult one at that.”

“So there’s nothing wrong? You didn’t see any red flags.”

“Everything looks healthy.”

After a year of trying, one little peek at my mystic treasures didn’t seem thorough enough. “Aren’t there some tests we can run?”

“There are certain fertility tests to identify any potential issues, but we like to start with a wide net and narrow down the possibilities.”

Yes, let’s make sure the HMO get all the co-pays possible before we get to the actual bottom of my fertility obstacles. “So, what’s the plan of action? Where do we start?” I needed answers.

“We can order some new bloodwork to check your hormone levels, and it might be a good time for some imaging. ”

“Imaging?”

“A pelvic ultrasound. A semen analysis for your partner is an option as well.”

“Where does he get that done?” I highly doubted anything was wrong with Hale’s swimmers, but it was worth a look. Whenever I pictured his sperm, they were swimming around in little Armani ties.

“They’ll give you a referral at the front desk.”

“Okay.” My gut told me this was a me problem, not a Hale problem. “For the imaging too?”

“Yes.” He made a note in his laptop. “It’s important that you keep trying.”

“We are. Every day.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Was it? Sex was starting to feel like a football play.

Rayne’s on defense. Hale’s coming in on that final-yard line. The team’s fired up, and there’s the snap…

“What about IVF?”

“I’d say we’re a ways off from that.”

“Exactly how long is ‘a ways’?” I needed solid numbers.

“Ovulation induction, insemination, or in vitro fertilization are treatments typically considered after a thorough evaluation.”

“Doc, we’ve been evaluating the…situation,” I gestured toward my lady bits. “for over a year.”

“Like I said, we need more tests. Moving forward with any ovulation treatment depends on each patient’s unique circumstances.” He stood and handed me a pamphlet. “There’s some helpful information in here about counseling and support groups. It’s important that you educate yourself before making any decisions.”

Why did so many male doctors assume woman put no thought into decisions prior to entering their office. This was the only thing I thought about—every day—for more than a year.

“Thanks.”

I glanced down at the cornflower blue brochure, and my heart stopped at the boldly printed word INFERTILITY .

The doctor continued to talk about information I needed to grab at the front desk but I was done listening. I stared at the brochure, wondering why it was in my hand if we still had ‘a ways’ to go and more to ‘thoroughly evaluate.’ Then the door closed and I wanted to cry.

It seemed like as safe a time as any. Hale wasn’t here, and I was alone. Just me and my empty eggs.

I sniffled, and a tear fell from my eye, forming a blotch on the brochure where the happy couple held an infant. I had no idea how long I sat there, but it felt like years before I was dressed, packed up, and collecting my appointment card and scripts from the front desk.

On the drive home, I was numb. No recollection of traffic or even parking my car when I reached the office.

I filled my arms with the reports I needed to return to Remington and tried to compartmentalize my professional life from my personal drama.

“Hello, Rayne,” Miles greeted in his chipper British accent as he entered the elevator. “I haven’t seen you all morning.”

“What?”

“I said, I haven’t seen you. Is everything okay?” He pressed the button for the top floor.

“Oh, I had an appointment this morning.”

“Well, lucky you. He’s in quite a mood today. Stocks plummeted and he’s been on a rampage. Something to do with a bill the senate just passed…”

Miles continued to update me in his eloquent, matter-of-fact way, but I couldn’t hear a single word over the ringing in my ears.

What senate bill was he talking about? Was it another one that went after women’s rights? What if we wound up needing IVF, but by the time we figured that out, some dickface part of the patriarchy took away that option?

In addition to everything else, I now felt a crushing sense of urgency. My mind started to panic, so I beelined toward Remington’s office the moment the elevator doors opened.

“Uh, Rayne, he asked not to be disturbed,” Miles warned, but I needed some sound advice.

Sophie, the newest receptionist whom I was pretty sure was sleeping with or trying to sleep with Remington, sputtered as I walked past. I didn’t bother with appointments. I was Remington’s right hand and daughter-in-law. We were family, so I marched right into his executive, corner office and shut the door .

“Ever hear of knocking, Meyers?”

I plopped into the club chair across from his enormous desk and slouched dramatically like a broken doll. “I’m barren.”

His bushy white brows furrowed. “Start over.”

I rummaged through my bag and withdrew the sad little brochure, tossing the crumpled paper onto his desk. “I went to the doctor this morning, and they want to run more tests.”

“Run more tests, meaning they haven’t concluded anything yet?”

“Well, no, there’s nothing since my initial labs. But something’s gotta be wrong, Remington. We’ve been at it for months!”

He set the brochure aside and glanced at his watch, debating the time. “Sometimes these things take time.”

“It’s been over a year. What if it just doesn’t happen for us?”

“Nonsense. Hale’s a Davenport. We have strong swimmers and a potent bloodline.”

“But what about me?”

I was a Meyers. We didn’t have a potent bloodline. Ours was instead a weak line of runaway men and commitment-phobic women. There were a lot of childless relatives in my gene pool, now that I thought about it. Even I was an only child.

My mom had to have a sex life after my father, right? He left when I was a little kid. Yet, I never had any siblings.

“I’m sure you’re fine, Meyers. You’re young and healthy. For once, don’t overcomplicate something simple. Just keep at it in the bedroom, and eventually, you’ll wind up in a nursery.”

He moved to the wet bar in the corner of his office and cursed. Returning to the desk, he stabbed a finger into the telephone and buzzed the secretary.

“Sophie, where the hell are the glasses?”

“Your reading glasses, sir?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, my damn martini glasses.”

The door to his office opened, and a flustered Sophie walked in carrying a tray full of stemware. “I put them in the mini-fridge to chill.” Every curve of her twenty-something, perky body was displayed in the skin-tight burgundy dress she wore.

“Next time, leave them where they are.”

“Yes, sir.”

She bent to open the fridge and both I and Remington silently tipped our heads to admire her perfect heart-shaped ass. Jeez, did the girl live in a Pilates studio?

Bet her ovaries were fine…

She set two frosted glasses on the bar beside the shaker. “Would you like me to mix you a drink, sir?”

I rolled my eyes. Just what Remington needed, another pretty, young thing to fawn over his every desire. Was she even old enough to handle alcohol? Apparently it didn’t matter that Remington was approaching his seventieth birthday.

“That’s all for now.”

She backed out of the room, her expression demure and her body language inviting.

As soon as the door closed I scoffed. “Please don’t sleep with her.”

“While you enjoy broadcasting your private business, Meyers, mine is not up for discussion. I’ll keep whatever company I want.”

“She’s barely twenty, Remington.”

“She’s twenty-three.”

“And how old is Miles?”

He frowned. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Exactly. Why do you even know her age?”

“She told me.”

“Because you asked?”

“What’s your point?”

“It must get tiring always having to pour their milk and cut their meat.” I was surprised she didn’t add on a few months and say she was twenty-three and a half.

He filled the shaker with ice. “You’re being especially judgmental today.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Why couldn’t he be satisfied with his long-term girlfriend, Odette? I liked Odette. She was normal. Very different from his batshit crazy wife who he kept stashed far away in the south of France.

He poured vodka over the ice, capped the shaker, and rattled it loudly. Poking at me, he smirked. “She did tell me she’s a Sagittarius.”

“Oh, my God.” Horoscopes were not the way into a man like Remington’s heart. “And you kept a straight face?”

He glanced over his shoulder, filling the martini glass with the accuracy of James Bond. “I’m a gentleman, first, and a critic, second, Meyers.”

“You’re a horny old man who likes pretty toys.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He crossed the room and handed me a martini.

“I can’t. ”

He scowled. “Why the hell not?”

“The doctor said I’m not supposed to drink right now.”

“That’s not until you get pregnant, Meyers. Alcohol’s historically proven to help make that happen. Drink it.”

I took the cold glass from him, mostly because I didn’t feel like arguing. My gaze drifted over its cloudy contents to the clock on the wall as I sipped. Ten a.m.

Remington returned to his desk with a matching martini. “I never tried to get any of my wives pregnant.”

Remington got more than a few wives pregnant over the years. Although, technically, Jasmine—Hale’s beautiful-cheating-manipulative-ex-girlfriend and Elara’s biological mother—was now married to Remington as part of a legal hush settlement. But I was sure there were plenty of other accidental whoopsies over the years. There seemed an endless line of gold diggers who looked at Remington Davenport like a retirement plan. His age never seemed to matter to any of them.

But for me, he was just a friend, a boss, and a father figure. “We don’t know if the issue’s with me or Hale.”

“That’s your problem, Meyers. You worry too much.” He sipped and flinched. “What the hell kind of olives does she have stocked?” His finger punched into the receiver on his desk, and he barked, “Sophie, where did you get these olives?”

“At the Winn-Dixie, sir.”

He shook his head. “I order my olives from Southern Europe. Get on the computer and get me some …”

“Spanish Queens,” I provided, knowing far more about this man than anyone should.

“Spanish Queens,” he snapped, then disconnected the intercom. Fishing out his sad little olive, he examined it and tossed it back into his glass. “No one cares about the minor details anymore.”

I set my martini down and went back to slouching. There were no answers for me here, but Remington had comfortable furniture, and at the moment, I felt safe and hidden in his oversized chair. His office was my favorite place to procrastinate.

“Schedule the tests, Meyers. Then, when you see nothing’s wrong, you can unload that worry and get back to old-fashioned fucking.”

I winced. “Remington.”

“Are we pretending a stork’s going to bring the baby? Grow up. Babies come from fucking. Just keep having sex, and you’ll get it right one of these times.”

Why did men simplify everything down to sex? “Well, you’ve been no help at all.”

“Last time I helped, I got in trouble. Something tells me your other half would prefer you not share these details with me.”

He was right. Hale was very private, especially where his intrusive father was concerned. “On that note…” I stood and waved a hand at the documents I brought in with me. “Your reports are finished and I emailed over the stats on the Highlander deal. I’m still waiting on the analytics for the new account, but everything else is done.”

“Don’t let that Davis fella push you around, Meyers. He told us we’d have the analytics by Tuesday, and it’s now Wednesday. We're taking our business elsewhere if he doesn’t have something in your inbox. Show him you have sharp teeth behind that smile. It’ll feel good to take your frustrations out by firing someone.”

I hated letting people go, so it was more likely to add to my stress than anything else. I had checked my emails while waiting at the doctor’s office that morning, and I already knew Davis hadn’t emailed the analytics report yet.

“Let’s just give him until?—”

“Meyers.” Remington met my stare with stern authority. “We don’t make exceptions. If people want to do business with us, they meet our deadlines. If the analytics aren’t there when you get back to your desk, fire him and hire someone more dependable.”

“Fine.” He knew I hated confrontation. “But aren’t you at least curious about his?—”

“No. I take no interest in incompetent people. Now, get to work.”

I pressed my lips into a flat line and stood, slugging back the rest of my chilled martini. “As always, this has been a real treat. Thanks for your help.”

“I gave you sound advice.”

“Thanks for that,” I mumbled as I left his office. Because without Remington’s revolutionary advice, I might have never concluded that sex could lead to pregnancy. Things would be much easier now that I figured that out.

When I got to my desk I spent twenty minutes avoiding my inbox and tidying up my work from yesterday. As expected, there was no email from Davis .

“Shit.”

I opened the file with the scripted letter I used to fire the last seven candidates for the job. With a quick copy and paste, we were good to go.

“Dear Mr. Davis,” I read, making minor adjustments to personalize the text. “Unfortunately, despite our shared efforts and expectations, the deadline was not met. I understand that unforeseen circumstances can sometimes affect our ability to meet obligations, and I appreciate the effort you put forth in attempting to complete the task. However, meeting deadlines is a crucial part of success. Yada, yada, yada, and send.”

I stood to stretch my legs and groaned at the uneasy feeling that always came with firing an employee.

My phone pinged, and I opened a text from Hale. He was in California at the moment, which was why he hadn’t gone to the doctor’s with me.

Good morning, baby. How was the appointment?

I quickly typed out a reply.

Appointment was fine. They want to update some labs and run some tests. When are you getting home?

He’d been gone for three days, and three days without Hale was usually my limit.

I should be walking through the door around ten tonight. Wait up for me?

Always.

I attached a little heart emoji and a kiss and slipped my phone back on my desk. A pile of work waited for me, and it was going to be a late night. Cuing up the latest resume submissions, I started searching for Davis’s replacement.

I worked well beyond five that day but figured it didn’t necessarily count as overworking myself because Hale wasn’t around to give me grief about working beyond my pay grade. When I heard him pull up, I shut my laptop and pretended I’d been watching a movie.

I didn’t know why I hid my overtime from him. Or maybe I did. It was just something I made a habit of doing to avoid more confrontations between him and Remington.

I must have been more exhausted than I thought because the next thing I knew, the sound of Hale entering the bedroom woke me up. For real. From sleep. Maybe I was developing narcolepsy. I made a mental note to add that to tomorrow’s Google list.

The soft creak of the door pulled me from sleep. Peeking through my lashes, my body soft and tucked deep within the covers, I watched Hale’s shadowed silhouette quietly creep into the dark room. Rather than say something to let him know I was awake, I took a moment to simply watch him.

He set his suitcase by the closet and loosened his tie. The lethargy of his motions told me it had been a long day for him. Once he stripped away his clothes, he climbed into bed. His hand slid slowly up my body, tracing the curve of my thigh to the jut of my hip.

“You asleep, baby? ”

I moaned softly and rolled to my back, blinking up at him through the dim glow cast by the television. My hand cupped his jaw where stubble had grown. “I missed you.”

Rather than kiss me, he pressed his forehead to mine and shut his eyes, giving our emotional connection a chance to entwine once more. “It’s good to be home.”