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As soon as I’m facing Amber instead of her, she fusses, arching her back like she wants out of the bouncy seat.
I look to Amber, raising an eyebrow in silent question.
“Yeah, you can take her out. She’s been sitting there for a while. Breakfast is almost ready.”
It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to unfasten the five-point harness, but I finally have her secured in my arms, and she’s happy again.
We look at each other, and it’s comfortable. The eye contact isn’t awkward with a baby. Maybe because they have no concept of personal space.
“She’s weirdly obsessed with you,” Amber muses, drawing my attention.
I look over to see her studying us with a bemused smile on her pretty face. A face free of makeup but just as beautiful as ever. Amber is always pretty, and I get that women like makeup and being creative—especially someone like Amber who sees it as an art form—but there’s something about fresh-faced Amber that I’ve always adored. Maybe because I can see her freckles better this way.
Not sure how to respond, I opt for a joke. “According to Sports Illustrated, I have one of the handsomest faces in hockey.”
I don’t smile when I say it, or even use a teasing tone, but Amber still knows I’m joking. She bursts out laughing, throwing her head back. “Did you hear that, Nella? You should feel privileged to look at that face.”
Nella coos in my arms, and I look down at her just as a stream of drool runs from her mouth and then down to my arm.
Amber grabs the two plates of biscuits and gravy she prepared for us and takes them to the large dining table in the opposite room. I follow behind her with Nella and take a seat.
The moment I’m seated, Amber reaches for Nella. She laughs when I’m reluctant to hand her over. “It’s about time for her to eat. Do you want to feed her? I pumped a bottle earlier; she needs to get used to bottles since I can’t nurse her with the pain medication I’ll take after surgery.”
“I’d like to, yes.”
Amber smiles and walks back into the kitchen, quickly returning with a bottle of breast milk. It’s bluish in color and, honestly, doesn’t look very appetizing for something that came out of a breast. The milk warms the plastic of the bottle, and it makes my stomach churn unexpectedly. I clear my throat and man up. Boobs are for more than looking nice. They feed humans. Nella whines, and I place the bottle close to her mouth. She latches on and sucks enthusiastically.
“Wow,” Amber muses. “She’ll hardly take a bottle from me. I think she wonders why I’m using one.”
I smirk. “And she knows my nipples are useless, so she doesn’t mind me giving her a bottle.”
Amber laughs, the sound filling the dining room and making me feel lighter.
Once Amber finishes her breakfast, she takes Nella to burp her. I watch so I know what to do next time.
Remembering the breakfast Amber made me, I shovel a large bite into my mouth and groan at how good it is. If Amber keeps up this kind of cooking, I’m going to get what Colby and Bruce call a dad-bod.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
AMBER
After breakfast, Ford Facetimes his parents while I put Nella down for her nap. When I come back down the stairs and peek in on him sitting on the living room couch, the nerves start kicking in.
We planned this during the drive here from Ohio, but it doesn’t ease the sloshing in my belly. My stomach feels like it’s the Black Sea blowing one of those giant ships around—complete with the deep baritone sea shanty playing in the depths of my gut, of course.
Biscuits and gravy probably weren’t my smartest idea.
I can see Ford’s parents on the screen, both smiling at their son the way they always do. But they have no idea the bomb we’re about to drop on them. Ford wanted a few minutes to talk to them before I pop into view, so I’m standing to the side waiting to make my appearance.
I catch Ford’s eye, and he gives me a small but reassuring smile. Even with his black sweatpants and hoodie, seated in a man-spread position on his giant sofa, there’s still something in his posture that makes me think he’s more anxious than he’s letting on. Maybe it the way he’s barely blinking…or how tightly he’s holding onto his phone.
He swore his parents would be thrilled about us, but that seems too good to be true. And if life has taught me anything…it’s that if it seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true.
Mr. and Mrs. Remington are smiling through the screen at Ford. His dad’s deep voice comes through, “You all rested up after your Canada trip, son?”
Ford shuffles so he’s holding his phone with one hand and runs the other one through his short hair. His hair is a little longer than usual. I’m guessing between traveling and our impromptu wedding, he didn’t make it to his standing bi-weekly haircut appointment. Actually, now that I’m here, I should offer to cut his hair for him.
