Jordan climbed the stairs to Abigail’s apartment and was surprised to find the door was wide open.

He frowned and peered inside, stomach jarring when he saw the living room was empty.

“Can I help you?”

An older man with a beer gut and blue coveralls came out of the hallway. He peered at Jordan suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Abby.”

The man’s mustache twitched. “She’s at the doctor.”

“What?” He took a step forward, feeling, for the first time in weeks, the frost seizing him shatter. “The baby. Is she okay?”

The man shrugged. “All I know is that she left in a big hurry.” He turned to head back down the hall.

Jordan ran out of the apartment. He’d come . . . to apologize? To make her see reason? To get her to collar her bulldog of an attorney? His lawyer was complaining about an office full of briefs and filings and affidavits.

But Abby was at the doctor and that meant—

He sprinted for his car, stopping at the bar to beg the use of a phone so he could call his assistant.

“I need you to find out what hospital Abigail Roberts is in,” he ordered when Brent answered. He pulled out his wallet and opened it to find the business card with the obstetrician who’d seen Abby in the hospital. “Check at Geary Regional first. Dr. Stephens. Call me back.”

“For a man who says he doesn’t need an assistant any longer,” Brent said, “you sure call me a lot.”

“Shut up and do it.”

“Love you too. Give me five.” He hung up the phone.

It only took Brent three.

“Suite 201, Geary. Dr. Stephens,” he announced when Jordan answered the return call.

“Thanks.”

“A thank you?” Brent asked with mock incredulity. “That might be the first verbal expression of gratitude in the history of all time you’ve—”

Jordan hung up, thanked the bartender for the use of his cell, and left the bar. He ran to his car, unlocked it, pressed the button to start the ignition, and tore off for the hospital.

The fifteen-minute drive was horrendous, one of the longest of his life. He didn’t know why he even cared.

Relief should be coursing through him, not terror.

But . . . he did care.

It took him an agonizing few minutes to find a parking spot, during which time he seriously considered just leaving his car in the middle of the lot.

He didn’t do that, one, because he wasn’t usually an asshole and, two, because the car was brand new.

He’d upgraded to an SUV.

The one with the best safety reviews. He’d even had his assistant order a car seat and a crib.

Okay, so maybe he had been putting Brent through the wringer lately.

Jordan guessed it was a good thing his unneeded assistant was still on the payroll.

In any event, he parked the car and was hustling for the stairs less than a half hour after walking into Abby’s apartment.

He pushed out of the stairwell, ripped open the door and . . . found a waiting room full of women.

All of whom glared up at him with narrowed eyes.

So much suspicion being thrown his way today.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

He gave her The Smile. The one that had always melted his nanny’s heart, even when he was in deep shit for having eaten a gallon of ice cream.

It was the same one that usually got him whatever female attention he required.

Coincidentally, it was also the smile that didn’t work on Abby.

But he couldn’t think about that now. He had to keep his game face on, find out what was going on, and most importantly, he needed to remember that she was exactly like all of the other women in his life.

Exactly like the women who’d nearly ruined his father’s business.

Who’d managed to successfully decimate his family.

“I’m sorry,” he said when her look went from guarded to dazed. Yes, he’d mentioned before he wasn’t usually an asshole, but he knew his effect on women and wouldn’t shy away from using it. God knew the female population did it all the time.

Jaded much?

He stifled a sigh, leaned against the counter, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I was rushing in because I’m looking for Abigail Roberts. I’ve never been here before, and she’s—”

The receptionist’s lips curved up, her bright red lipstick jarring against the maroon of her scrubs. “Oh, of course. Don’t worry, she was running late herself. Go on to the other door, and I’ll send the nurse out to get you.”

“Thank you,” he said, moving to the side. The panic that had been gripping him eased.

The receptionist was calm. Surely if Abigail was in any danger, her demeanor would be more serious, or they would have sent him down to the Emergency department.

Maybe she just wasn’t feeling well?

Which probably meant that he should just turn around and leave. It wasn’t a crisis. He had no business being there.

Except . . . something inside of him would not let him leave until he’d laid eyes on Abby.

He needed to see for himself that she was okay.

“Here you go, Mr. Roberts,” the receptionist said, using Abby’s last name like it was his and they were married. He didn’t bother to correct her, especially when she ran a hand down his chest and leaned so close that her breasts brushed his arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said when he flicked his eyes down and raised one brow. Hurriedly, she stepped back. “Ms. Roberts will be in the second room on the right.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

The way she said those two words was not flattering. It was slightly creepy and very much over the top.

But he supposed that it was his fault for unleashing The Smile.

God, he was an asshole.

Instead of letting that stop him, Jordan walked down the hall and opened the second door on the right.

In retrospect, he should have knocked.

“Jesus Christ!” Abby shrieked. “What is it with you and trying to expose my vagina to the world? Get out!”

He stood frozen for a moment, round two of sights he could never unsee now burned on his retinas, before stepping through the door and closing it behind him. “Dr. Stephens,” he said.

“Mr.— oh, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m terrible with names.”

“Jordan,” he said, and released The Smile for the second time. Why not? He was already in deep with the receptionist. He may as well use it to get on the doctor’s good side. “You can call me Jordan.”

Dr. Stephens raised a brow at Abby. “Got a dangerous one there.”

Abby snorted. “Yeah, and his sperm is the most dangerous part.” She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I went to your apartment.”

She rolled her eyes. “I changed the code.”

“The door was wide open,” he countered.

The doctor coughed and Abby jumped. “I’m sorry—”

“Carry on,” Jordan said. “I’ll just sit over here and not bother anyone.”

Another snort from Abby, but she didn’t protest as he moved to the chair at her side.

“Cold,” Dr. Stephens warned and then moved her hand under the paper blanket thing Abigail had draped over her legs.

Abby winced but didn’t say anything, just turned her attention to the machine next to her.

Jordan’s breath caught. “Is that—?”

Dr. Stephens smiled. “That’s your baby. Here’s the head and the feet and that little oval there is the heart.”

He watched the rapid flutter-flutter of his baby’s heart, heard the whoosh-whoosh as the organ pumped furiously on the black and white screen, and something unlocked inside him.

“Here.” Dr. Stephens handed him a printout of the image. “For the scrapbook. Or wallet. Or whatever.” She passed a larger stack to Abby. “Everything looks good. I’ll see you in two weeks, okay?”

“Okay,” Abby said.

“Keep it up with those small meals and call or email me if you experience any dizziness or fainting.”

Abby agreed and the doctor left.

Jordan leaned toward Abby to getter a better look at the ultrasound pictures, but she pushed him away.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I just want to see the pictures.”

She shoved them into his hands. “Look all you want, but get away from me.” She gulped, clapping a hand over her nose. “Haven’t puked in two freaking weeks. Five minutes with you and I’m a hairsbreadth away. You’re wearing it again, aren’t you?”

“Wearing what?” He was barely listening as he flipped through the photos of his baby. His baby.

How was this his life?

“Satan’s deodorant.”

That got his attention and he shifted his gaze to Abby. “What are you talking about?”

“Your deodorant smells like shit.” She stood up, careful to keep the drape around herself.

Disappointing, that. He hadn’t seen nearly enough of her.

And he was fucking insane to go there. Even if it was just in his head.

“You just turn your back, mister,” she ordered, shuffling toward the pile of clothes on the bench. “Last thing you need to see is more of me.”

He could argue the point, but Jordan opted not to.

Instead, he did what any normal man would do: acquiesced to Abby’s wishes and shifted in the chair—then watched like hell out of the corner of his eye.