“Pops,” I say way too forcefully from his door. I step inside and instantly feel better when I find him looking alert and healthy in his hospital bed. The man is chatting up the nurse checking his vitals. “You scared the hell outta me.”
“Hey kid. Relax. I’m fine.”
“What happened?” I demand once I’m at his side.
“A little mishap. Nothing too serious.”
I wait for the nurse to finish up, and after she leaves, I rest my palm on the side of his face, cupping his jaw. That’s as close as I’ll get to holding onto him. He’ll lose it if I try to hug him. The way he sees it, men don’t need to go that far with the whole being affectionate with other men, not even family. He’s old school, from a long line of pigheaded alpha males who are too stubborn to get with the times. But then again, I’m not much different.
“You scared me, old man.”
He covers my hand with his and gives it a short squeeze before moving my hand away. “Calm down with the PDA. I said I’m fine.” I’m so relieved that he’s his usual self that I ignore his aversion to being held. Lowering to his side, I wrap an arm around his neck and hold on. He pats my back for two seconds. “That’s enough, Knox. Keep it up and I’ll have you banned from coming to see me,” he says, but I know he doesn’t mean it.
“How bad are you hurt? They said something about a concussion and a slip and fall?”
“I just told you it was nothing. I tripped on that damned Persian rug at the foot of my bed. Bumped my head on the edge of that Chesterfield. The thing’s padded. It barely hurt, but the maid heard me and got all panicked. I’m okay. Didn’t break my hip or anything.”
“I’m glad she was around,” I say. “We’re going to have to hire someone.”
“No. We’re not doing to do any such thing,” he grumbles.
“Okay then. I’ll move back into your house, and I’ll work from home so I can keep an eye on you.”
He gives me a mean look. “One little spill and you’re gonna go all soft on me? Fine, dammit. Hire a nurse. Just make sure she’s nice looking.”
“Good. I’ll take care of it.”
He looks around the room for a moment, then returns his gaze to me. “Jesus H Christ. Check your damn messages, boy.”
I smile and put my hand on his shoulder. “I will. Later.”
“No. Do it right now,” he insists. “There’s enough goddamned beeping and buzzing from all these monitors around here to make me have a real medical emergency.”
“Fine,” I tell him, and pull my phone out.
Taking a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs, I unlock the phone and notice there are five messages in my voicemail, but nothing is waiting in my text message inbox. That’s when I remember Foster was fucking around in my phone earlier, and said something about fixing my girlfriend problems.
The first thing I do is open the message history from Isabelle.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, forgetting that Pops is right next to me. “Sorry about that.”
“Watch that language around me, kid. Just because I’m laid up in the hospital doesn’t mean I can’t still wash your mouth out with soap.”
“All right, Pops,” I say distractedly, because all my focus is on the screen.
My hands start to shake, and I scroll all the way up to re-read the messages that came in at the start of the day, as well as the back and forth ones that Foster wrote.
Isabelle: Hey. Dickhead. This is Bethany. Remember me? I still think you’re an asshole. Anyhow. My sister doesn’t know I’m sending this to you. Pay attention, now. I won’t say this shit twice.
Isabelle: Here’s what I have to say. Isabelle is pregnant. It’s yours.
Isabelle: You’re welcome. Don’t ever say I didn’t do anything for you.
I get to my feet and start pacing. This is not happening. She’s pregnant? We had sex one time, with a condom, and I knocked her up? Shit. I think back to the last two weeks. Her weight loss, the tiredness, lack of appetite, and feeling sick all the time. Jesus. She’s pregnant. And it’s mine?
“What’s going on, son?” Pops asks, pulling my attention away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m just…never mind, I can handle this,” I tell him and look at the screen again.
The texts that Foster wrote are immediately below, showing up as though I sent it. I’m not just floored by this news. I’m fucking pissed about Foster’s replies.
Me: Hey Bethany. How are things out in the sticks? By the way, this is not Dickhead. It’s Foster. I’m on Dickhead’s phone.
Me: Thanks for the news that I’m gonna be a godfather! I’ll pass the message on.
Me: Also, I’m just gonna suggest this. Knox hasn’t seen your news yet. He’ll be surprised about knocking her up, but once the news sinks in, he’ll be more excited about it than his baby momma. Also, if he was reading this, he’d tell you and Isabelle to fly back here right now or we’ll spank both your asses until they’re red as fuck.
Me: I’ll take care of your fine ass, Bethany. Not to worry.
Isabelle: Foster, you perv. Bethany again. You wouldn’t know what to do with my fine ass if it came with directions. Just saying.
Me: Hey! Bethany! You wanna bet? Anyway, I doubt Knox will check these messages, so I’m sending my private jet to Denver today. Make sure you’re both on it.
Isabelle: I’ll take Isabelle to the airport when your plane is ready. She and Knox need to work this out. Text me at 720-555-9202.
Me: All right. Texting you from my phone
