A nurse at the hospital reception desk looks up Pops’ information for me when I arrive at the main intake area. “Morris Steele. He’s been placed in a private room in the emergency ward,” she informs me. “Room one-nineteen. It’s down this hall. Follow the green footsteps all the way around to the back. You can’t miss it.”

I’m confused. “Miss, can you check again? My grandfather should be in the oncology unit, not emergency.”

“There’s no mistake,” she says. “He was admitted for a laceration to the head and a possible concussion, caused by a slip and fall accident of some kind. He’s in room one-nineteen. When you get there, ask the desk nurse there to call the attending physician. They’ll review the status and prognosis with you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

I rush through the hallways, unable to breathe. My chest is heavy, and I can’t think straight. It’s bad enough that Pops has to deal with being terminal. How did he end up falling? The guilt builds up in my chest to overflowing. This is all my fault. I should’ve hired someone to be with him full time. I shouldn’t just take the man’s word that he’s fine. He’s a proud old fool. He’d never admit to being weak or tired. This shit is on me.

“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.

---

---

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.

---

---

“That idiot,” I shout, forgetting where I am again.

“Knox. What’s this about?” Pops is insistent this time.

“It’s nothing.”

“Like hell it is. What is it?”

“Okay it’s something. I…I just got some news,” I say, not wanting to worry him. “I need to talk to Isabelle about it, is all.”

“Okay, so what the heck are you doing here? Go talk to her. I’m fine. This is minor stuff. They’re just taking precautions, observing me for twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t want to leave you. Not here.”

He sits up straight in his hospital bed and drags the oxygen tubes down from his nose. “I swear to God, if you use my illness as an excuse not to deal with your problems, when I die, I’ll come back with your mom and dad, and we’ll tag team haunting your sorry ass until you have the fear of God in you! Get going. Go get your girl.”

I don’t know why Pops is making light of his illness and bringing my parents into it, but I can tell by that tone that he’s not playing with me.

“Fine. I’ll go call her now.”

“You better.”

I leave the room and call Isabelle’s number from my contact list. She doesn’t answer, so I find Foster’s contact information and phone him next.

“Hey,” he answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“I’ll deal with the shit you pulled later, but for now just tell me what’s the status on Isabelle’s ETA. I tried to call her. Is she and the baby okay?”

“They’re fine. It was gonna take too long to send my plane there, so I booked a private charter straight from Denver. Their flight left a few minutes ago, so yeah, she can’t use her phone in transit. They’ll land in JFK in about five hours.”

I lean against the wall outside my grandfather’s private room and look up at the ceiling. A wave of relief flows through me, now that I know Isabelle is on her way back. I was a fool. If I have to spend the next ten years groveling for her forgiveness, I’ll do it wholeheartedly. I had no right allowing her to go through any of this alone. It’s my fault for not letting her in. But that baby is mine. Isabelle is fucking mine too. It’s time I accept that.

“Okay. Hey…thanks for doing this for me.”

“It’s all good, man,” he tells me. “That’s what friends do for each other.”

“All right.”

“Where are you, anyway? What’s all that shit in the background?” he asks.

“Shit, I forgot to tell you. Pops is in the emergency room here at Mount Sinai.”

“Damn. What happened?”

“He slipped and hurt his head, but he’s fine now. They’re holding him for observation.”

Foster lets out a breath. “That’s a relief. Listen, do you need me there? I can stay with him if you want to meet Isabelle when her charter lands.”

“You sure?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, and chuckles a little. “Hanging out with Pops is a breeze compared to that other stuff. You go ahead, deal with your baby momma drama.”

“All right.”

I hang up the phone and return to Pops’ room. He’s still sitting the way I left him, but the oxygen tubes are back in place.

He folds his arms and shakes his head. “I have half a mind to cut you right out of my will and replace your name with Isabelle’s, for what you put that girl through.”

“Relax, Pops. I’m taking care of it. I’m fixing things.”

“What’s this I hear about a great-grandbaby? You’re gonna hold out on your Pops like that?”

“How much did you hear from my phone call?” I ask. “The door was almost closed the whole way.”

“Boy, I’m old, not deaf. Tell me what’s going on.”

I sit on the side of the bed, and I tell him everything. From the engagement party, to Foster’s texts, leaving nothing out, except for the obvious details of what went on behind closed doors with Isabelle. After I’m done, he puts his hand on my forearm and smiles.

“Son, I’m not a big fan of your methods, but I have to say that it sounds like you’re growing up. You need to take care of a few things, like that whole part about ignoring her calls and stuff. That has to stop. Right now.”

“Your right. I won’t do that anymore.”

“Good. You’ll need to make up for that, big time. I hope she hasn’t given up on you entirely.”

“Me too.”

He squeezes my shoulder and leans back on the bed. “Go on, now. Fix this. Don’t come back here unless you have Isabelle beside you.”

I let him know that Foster will come by to keep him company, and leave for the airport.

I have a fuckton to do to make it up to my Belle.