The Officer's Runaway Wife & Secret Son novel Chapter 185

Clara leaned back against the seat, still taking deep breaths.

"Clara, are you okay? Do we need to go to the hospital?"

Simon's heart was pounding. She was a pregnant woman with a history of threatened miscarriage. That sudden brake had scared the life out of him, let alone her.

Clara closed her eyes, swallowing the wave of nausea rising in her throat. "No need. I'm fine. Just a bit startled. I'll be okay in a minute."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Clara turned her head to watch the blurry rainscape passing by. "I just want to go home, take a shower, eat something, and sleep."

Going to the hospital meant blood draws and exams—a huge hassle. Plus, running into anyone Rhys knew would only mean more trouble.

Simon grit his teeth. "Alright, home it is. That Huntington family is a curse. Nothing good happens when they're around!"

Clara didn't respond.

Back at Shady Lane, Simon immediately started rummaging through drawers.

Clara looked at him, puzzled. "What are you looking for?"

"A metal bowl, paper, a lighter."

Simon grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen, then fished a stack of junk mail flyers from the mailbox downstairs. He set up a solemn formation in the middle of the living room floor.

"That trip was bad luck. You picked up bad vibes, demons, and toxic ex-energy. We have to burn it off and send the misfortune packing!"

Clara watched his mystic antics, finding it ridiculous but amusing. "Since when are you into this kind of voodoo? What did you use to say about my superstitions?"

Simon glared at her. "Who am I doing this for?"

He lit the paper in the bowl, chanting under his breath: "By the power of the Universe, begone! Evil spirits, begone! Rhys, begone! Margot, begone! Veronica West, begone! Out, out, out!"

The flames whooshed up in the bowl, illuminating Simon's fiercely serious face.

When she opened the door, a smell of something charred hit her.

Clara's brow twitched as she covered her nose. "Simon, are you conducting chemical warfare in the kitchen?"

Simon popped his head out. "What warfare? Don't insult my cooking! Come grab a plate!"

Clara went to look and fell silent.

It was, presumably, a plate of scrambled eggs. Black and brownish-yellow, barely recognizable as food.

He shoved a fork into Clara's hand. "Your godmother said no more takeout. Try it."

Clara was speechless.

She stared at the plate for a long time before gathering the courage to spear a piece of egg that looked slightly less carbonized and put it in her mouth.