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Happily Ever All-Star 1(2)

By´╝ÜSosie Frost

“You’ve misspelled your name, didn’t enter your birthday, and the answer to sex isn’t all the time.”

“You haven’t met my wife.”

“She must be a saint. Finish the test.”

Lachlan typed entirely too much information into the computer, but I could edit out the dirty limerick he composed to describe his recurrent symptoms. I let him work, plopping into my chair with an exhausted sigh.

My butt went down…but my girls popped up.

The blouse valiantly attempted to contain my newfound assets, but my breasts had swelled to obscene proportions. Peeps in a microwave. The molehill made into a mountain range. My once lackluster credentials now intrigued my patients more than the PhD framed on the wall.

I heaved an exhausted breath.


The middle button on my blouse had teetered on the brink of surrender all day. A pep talk at lunch and a bit of scotch tape on the inside of my shirt had bolstered its fortitude, but I’d asked for miracles.

The straining button popped from my shirt, and a faux-pearl flung across the office to lodge in Lachlan’s ear.

Too bad we weren’t playing golf. That hole in one might have made for a good story instead of a potential trip to the emergency room to check his ear drum.

“Ow!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry! I’m taking the test!”

The button dropped to the floor. I kicked it away and slapped a hand over the blouse. No need to encourage my chocolate cannonballs to blast out of my shirt as well. My new body was one hell of a battlefield, and the only person losing was me.

My waist hadn’t changed…yet. My chest was out of control—like a Willy Wonka curse that punished me for sneaking Reese Cups for breakfast instead of Greek yogurt. Years of chess clubs, library study sessions, and medical school hadn’t prepared me for this sudden boon to my appearance.

Sure, it was unethical to say I was a proctologist, but it had scared away the team and halted the flood of phone numbers, party invitations, and wildly inaccurate anatomical drawings.

“Lachlan, you shouldn’t have to count on your fingers.” I rubbed my head. “There’s no math questions. It’s all memorization.”

He buzzed his lips. “I might need to redo the test.”

First do no harm. Do no harm. Do no harm.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the field today?” I asked.

“Nah, still conditioning.” He yawned. “Sleep deprived though. The baby isn’t sleeping through the night yet.”

I forced a smile.

Uh-oh. Was it a smile? Or did I flinch?

Oh god, he didn’t realize I was pregnant did he?

If anyone found out, I’d be ruined.

Then again, if Lachlan Reed couldn’t repeat a series of three numbers forwards and backwards, there was no way this Sherlock had deduced that I was pregnant. We were just making small talk. Conversations held by normal people who weren’t competing for a cutthroat, prestigious fellowship. My secret was safe, and so was my job.

I still couldn’t believe I nearly blew this chance on the wrong man.

Technically, I had done more than blow him.

I restarted the test for Lachlan, but the instant his hand clicked the mouse, the laptop went black.

He leapt away from the computer. “That wasn’t my fault.”

I had the feeling most disasters in the Rivets organization were Lachlan’s fault.

I clicked the mouse. Nothing. Pressed the power button. Nothing. I reached for the power cord, but I didn’t expect the snap.

A moment of terror stilled me. Was it a rib? The heel of my shoe?

Oh God, I wished it were my neck.

Nope. It was my bra. The jagged slip of the underwire punched inwards. I yelped and burst upright.

Lachlan jerked away. He tripped over the power cable, whipped the laptop off the desk, and ducked as it smashed against the floor.

“That…might have been my fault.” Lachlan handed me the spritzer bottle. “Go ahead.”

I gave him one squirt. “You know…you’re young. You probably haven’t had any concussions yet.”


“Would we really be able to tell a difference?”

“Awesome! Can I go? Gotta get home and see my son.”

“Please.” I pushed him to the door. The underwire attempted to puncture my lung, and I forced a smile. “I’ll…do your assessment later.”

Much, much later.

A flash from the hallway blinded both of us. The team’s photographer—Elle—came to collect her husband. She carried both a camera and her four-month old baby boy. She trusted Lachlan enough to hold the child, though I suspected she’d hook her husband to the baby leash when they ventured into a crowded public location.