Brain Games

Epilogue

4 YEARS LATER...

I groan in agony, heavily leaning against the nurses' station to flex my tired, aching, and beyond swollen feet after performing a five hour surgery. I should probably start laying off the longer surgeries, but my pride and my urge to be in the OR working on challenging cases overrides the pain.

As soon as I spot a nurse roll away from a computer to go check on a patient, I swoop in and steal her chair, feeling instant relief at being off of my feet.

I rest for a moment before I begin charting, and the nurse I stole the chair from comes back sooner than I expected.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, struggling to get back up to give her the chair back. "Let me just—"

"No, that's okay," the young nurse says quickly, putting her hands up, as if we're in a high stakes situation and I'm the one with the loaded gun. "You can have it," she says before scurrying away, acting as if I have some sort of disease.

Trust me sweetie, what I have isn't contagious. It's only caused by one thing.

Speaking of that one thing, the culprit I did it with comes sauntering down the hallway, his rich brown eyes immediately locking on mine. He smiles brightly, looking all handsome, glowing, and exuberant because he can perform a five hour surgery without his feet swelling to the size of balloons.

Brad makes his way to me, bending down to press a kiss to my lips. "Hi, babies," he says, placing a hand on my belly, grinning. His grin only grows when I roll my eyes with exasperated amusement.

Ever since he knocked me up seven months ago, he hardly ever refers to me as baby anymore. Now that I'm carrying his child, his term of endearment has changed to babies—plural.

"That's still not funny or cute," I lie, trying to smother a smile.

"That's what you always say, but it's not what you think," he singsongs, smacking a quick kiss to my forehead before kneeling in front of me. His hands circle my ankles, thumbs gently massaging the tender, swollen flesh. I nearly moan at how good it feels. "You doing okay?" he asks, concern furrowing his brow and worry lining his eyes. He knows I've been struggling these last few months.

I blow out a slow breath. "Yeah, just tired," I admit, causing him to frown with empathy. "I just need this one,"—I jab a finger to my stomach—"to get here already."

He chuckles, leaning in to kiss my swollen belly. "Less than two months," he assures me.

I groan in agony, impatient. "Still too long," I mumble.

"I know," he consoles. "Go home and get some rest. I have to stay around here for a few more hours because of a trauma rolling in, but I'll be home soon," he promises.

"Oh, what kind of trauma?" I ask, interest peaked.

The corner of his mouth ticks up. "One you don't need to worry about."

I narrow my eyes at him. "It's something good, isn't it?" I press.

He shakes his head, suppressing a smile. "I'm not saying anything."

I gasp, sitting up straighter. "It is something good," I realize. "Let me help," I beg.

Now it's his turn to narrow his eyes at me. "You need to go home and rest."

"No," I whine in protest.

"Yes," he counters with finality.

I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. "If I wasn't seven months pregnant you'd let me help."