A Baby for the Doctor. Jacqueline Diamond

to a doctor. She let it go, returning to the pregnancy.

      “Based on the dates you gave me, you’re about six weeks along, which means you’re due in mid to late September,” she said. “In case you’re interested, the baby’s eyes and limb buds are starting to appear at this stage.”

      Too much information. Anya performed the mental equivalent of closing her ears and skipped to a more bearable topic. “Six weeks? It’s only been five weeks since we...since conception.”

      “We measure pregnancies from the date of the last menstrual period,” the doctor reminded her.

      “Oh. Right.” All this theoretical knowledge seemed quite different when you were the patient, Anya reflected glumly. “I haven’t had any morning sickness. Well, maybe a tiny bit. I thought it was some chorizo I ate.”

      “Let’s talk about a healthy diet during pregnancy,” the doctor said, seizing on the topic. “Or are you already familiar with all this?”

      Being a scrub nurse, Anya didn’t deal with maternity on a regular basis. Also, in her state of shock, she could scarcely recall her own phone number, let alone the rules for moms-to-be. “Refresh my memory. Do I have to eat anything weird?”

      “Depends on what you consider weird.”

      “Seaweed?”

      Adrienne smiled. “That won’t be necessary, although seaweed is quite nutritious. It’s a rich source of antioxidants and vitamins.”

      Anya wrinkled her nose.

      “You can skip it, though,” the doctor said. “Be sure to include plenty of fruits and vegetables in your diet. No alcohol or tobacco, no raw fish such as sushi, and avoid soft cheeses. They can carry bacteria.”

      “I can’t eat Brie?” That sounded cruel to Anya. Another mark against Jack. Someone ought to deprive him of Brie for the next eight months.

      Oh, don’t be childish.

      “If the milk’s pasteurized, it should be safe,” the doctor said. “Cut out caffeine, or at least cut back. No undercooked meat or paté, and limit your fish consumption to twelve ounces a week in case of mercury contamination.”

      This discussion set Anya’s stomach churning. “Can you give me a list?”

      “I’d be happy to.” From a drawer, the obstetrician fetched several pamphlets and a prescription pad. “Also, we advise that you avoid changing kitty litter because of toxoplasmosis, a disease that sometimes infects cats and can harm the baby. Do you have a pet?”

      “Just an African violet.” Which Jack had given her. “I hate him,” Anya burst out.

      The doctor paused, brochures in midair. “The father? Understandable.”

      “It isn’t his fault,” Anya conceded. “But that only makes me even madder. I want revenge on somebody, and he’s nominated.”

      “You might write down your revenge fantasies,” Dr. Cavill-Hunter responded. “You can always shred them later.”

      “Can I post them on the internet?” Anya didn’t seriously expect an answer. She was simply venting. “Is this what people mean by pregnancy hormones making you cranky?”

      “I’d say it’s a legitimate emotional response to a difficult situation.”

      Did the doctor have to be this rational? Right now, Anya would prefer a friend to share her righteous wrath.

      The rest of the office visit passed in a fog. The doctor answered routine questions. Eva produced a packet of sample vitamins and pregnancy-related goodies and set up the next appointment. Tactfully, she refrained from commenting.

      All the while, Anya’s emotions seethed. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Only how did you do that? Especially because she was the one who’d messed up her contraception.

      Worse, she had to get the father’s stupid John Hancock on the adoption paperwork. Her anger shifted toward the idiots in the state legislature, who she presumed had mandated this. Busybodies. Nanny government.

      Don’t think about nannies.

      In the lobby, her mood didn’t improve on finding that the pharmacy had closed minutes earlier. Not that she needed to fill the vitamin prescription in a hurry, but it left yet another pain-in-the-neck detail to take care of.

      As she turned away, a twinge of nausea ran through her. Suddenly morning sickness was striking in the evening.

      As Anya pressed her hands over her stomach, reality hit like a blast of icy wind. She was pregnant. Carrying a child. About to become a mother. Frequently, she assisted at surgeries for women desperate to conceive and willing to undergo complex, expensive treatments. How unfair this situation was to them—and her.

      Anya wished she could bless one of them with this miracle because it had happened to the wrong person. She was utterly unready to take on the tremendous job of raising a helpless little person. She was sure to screw up.

      Now she also had to deal with the practical side of pregnancy. She faced nearly eight more months of fluctuating hormones and a variety of body aches and pains. How long could she keep working as a surgical nurse? What would her parents say?

      Nothing. Because she didn’t intend to tell them. To them, it would be yet another sign of her immaturity, of her not being able to do anything right.

      Grumpily, she shouldered open the glass exterior door and stopped at a real blast of cold air. February. Ugh. Accustomed to mild Southern California midday temperatures, she’d worn only a light jacket.

      Behind her, the elevator doors slid apart and heavy male footsteps smacked across the lobby. “Hold up!” A pushy man—was there any other kind? her hormones demanded—reached above her head to hold the door.

      It was Jack. Of course. Could this day get any worse?

      As always, he smelled like soap and masculinity with a splash of lime. His dark blue coat fit his broad shoulders and strong body as if designed for him. Oddly, she realized, his scent had a soothing effect on her stomach, making her crave more of his nearness. All the more reason to hate him. She trudged on.

      He halted on the front walkway. “Anya!”

      “Yes?” She wondered what the correct etiquette was for this situation. You couldn’t just blurt, “I’m pregnant, so sign the parental waiver,” could you?

      That would be efficient but not very diplomatic. Out loud, she said, “We should talk.” There, that was better.

      Before she could say anything else, though, he asked, “Can you give me a ride?”

      They lived in the same complex, so why not? Plus, they’d have a chance to talk away from prying ears. “Okay. What happened to your car?”

      “I loaned it to my uncle.” He walked alongside her toward the parking garage.

      “Where’s his car?”

      “In the shop, as usual.” Jack’s body partially blocked the wind, cocooning Anya. “He was supposed to pick me up after my office hours, but we had a family emergency.”

      Anya had never heard about any other members of Jack’s family, aside from Dr. Vintner. “I hope it’s nothing serious.” Much as she’d like for him to suffer, she only wanted him to do so on her terms and without involving innocent third parties.

      “Long story.”

      “Yeah, don’t bother to tell me,” she grumbled. “Never mind that I’m doing you a favor.”

      Anya couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud. She never snapped at doctors. She hardly ever crabbed at anybody, in fact, except Zora, who could take it.

      When they reached the car, Jack put his hand on her arm. The warmth lit a tiny flame inside Anya, a reminder of how comforting it would be