Billionaire Bad Boy's Fake Bride: BWWM Romance by Mia Caldwell

had gotten to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time last night,” she groused when the doctor asked how she felt.
    Dr. Whitaker just smiled. “We had to check on you frequently to make sure the pressure hadn’t increased. You seem to be doing well though, and I have no hesitation sending you home with some caveats. If your symptoms worsen, of course come back or call nine-one-one, and of course you can’t be alone for the next forty-eight hours.”
    “You can stay in my apartment, or I’ll stay with you,” volunteered Connor, who looked just as handsome and put-together as he had yesterday, as though he hadn’t spent an uncomfortable night in the chair that folded out into a too-narrow, too-short bed. She nodded her agreement, though she had no intention of following the doctor’s orders. Having someone around for the next two days seemed unnecessary, but she wasn’t about to argue until she was free from the place, not wanting Dr. Whitaker to change her mind about releasing her.
    The doctor finished up with her a little while later, and Angelina shuffled into the shower, pleasantly surprised to find the hospital had more than adequate pressure and water hot enough to fill the entire small bathroom with steam. It was only after she had finished her shower and dried off that she realized she hadn’t brought her clothes into the bathroom with her.
    Feeling awkward, she cracked the bathroom door and poked out her head. “Um, Connor, do you mind handing me my clothes? I hope they’re in that little closet cubby over there.”
    He nodded. “Sure.”
    A moment later, he found her clothes in the closet and brought them to her. She blushed like a schoolgirl when he accidentally dropped her panties and picked them up, handing them to her after a slow perusal of the lacy white garment. “Nice,” he commented with a lascivious leer that was clearly exaggerated—she hoped.
    She rolled her eyes, a maneuver that was surprisingly painful with her had still aching. “Thanks for the clothes.” She took a measure of satisfaction in slamming the door in his face, but his husky laugh detracted from her feeling of victory.
    She dressed as quickly as she could, having to pause between motions to allow the waves of dizziness to pass. Finally, feeling like an invalid, she shuffled from the bathroom to discover the nurse had brought her discharge papers. A few minutes later, the nurse wheeled her to the exit, and she stepped out of the wheelchair at the front door. Connor put his arm through hers to offer support as they stepped into the sunlight.
    For a moment, she thought the bright flashes were a reaction from her concussion at first exposure to direct sunlight. It took a moment for her to realize they were camera flashes, and there were a lot of them, all centered on her and Connor. Each flash was like an icepick through her head, and she grasped her temple and pressed closer to Connor in her confusion. She was doing her best to avoid the flashes, so it took a moment for any of the words being screamed at her to coalesce into comprehensible sentences.
    “Is this the first time Mr. Blackwell has hit you?” asked an aggressive reporter as he shoved the microphone toward her face.
    “Can you confirm your engagement?”
    “When is the baby due?”
    “Is it true he hit you because you wouldn’t agree to marry him?”
    “Sources say he struck you because you tricked him into proposing. Is that true, Ms. Walsh?”
    “Who will you be wearing on the big day?”
    “How long you been engaged?”
    “Are you staying with him after he beat you? What kind of example does that set for young women everywhere?”
    The questions blurred together, but she quickly realized the reporters were there for her and Connor, and because they believed Connor had been the one to injure her. She was confused and overwhelmed. Her head spun, and it was a relief to allow herself a moment of weakness and surrender herself to Connor’s care. Angelina