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“Don’t be a total idiot,” she says, and flips another page. “And I’m half Irish. You would know this if you’d bothered to read the dossier I gave you.”
I read her daseeyay. Three times. Got the damn thing memorized. She doesn’t need to know that though.
“So…double the trouble, then?”
Another page flip. “I’m going to pretend this conversation isn’t happening.”
“Wylder family?” the nurse standing in the hallway calls, her eyes scanning the busy clinic waiting room. The baby business seems to be booming.
“That’s us,” I automatically answer, my hand raised in eager anticipation. Yes, eager. I’m excited to do this. Once I’ve set my mind on accomplishing somethin’, I go full steam ahead.
Stella’s dark head whips around and her brow wrinkles. She’s scolding me. She gets real cute when she scolds me. “No family. Just Donovan-Wylder,” she corrects, her eyes wide on me.
“She doesn’t need to know our personal business.”
“I’d rather not confuse the doctor. Or set a bad precedent.”
“Yeah, let’s not set a bad precedent with the doctor and allow her to think we’re a family. Come on, Wylder-Donovan.”
I get up and offer her a hand. For a second she hesitates, staring at it as if the fate of the universe hangs in the balance. Until something in her pretty little head convinces her to take it. Her touch soft, her skin pale, and for the first time I notice how small and delicate it is…how delicate she is. Delicate things break easily.
The nurse motions us forward and we follow her down the hall.
“Donovan-Wylder. Alphabetical order,” the small female whispers.
I stop and look down, her blue-green eyes big in her face. “My son’s gonna be a hyphenate?”
She blinks up at me. “Or daughter. Your daughter will have a hyphenated name.”
Daughter? I immediately picture a tiny little thing with tears in her big blue-green eyes and a shudder runs through me. “Let’s think positive.”
I get an eye roll. Some muttered words––in Spanish I think. Then she walks into the office.
Inside, the doc, Dr. Elmendorf, a middle-aged women with a no-bullshit look about her, stands and walks around her desk to shake both our hands.
“Please have a seat. I wanted to touch base with the two of you. Any lingering questions before we get started?”
An image of Stella big and round with my baby pops into my head and I’m gripped by a surge of fear I haven’t felt since my orthopedic surgeon said the words ACL tear four years ago. Women die in childbirth. This is a wrinkle I hadn’t considered before.
I clear my throat and both women turn their focus on me, watching me expectantly.
“I…ah…I want to be sure––” I wipe my palms on my jeans. Fuck’s sake, I haven’t been this nervous since draft night.
“Be sure of what, Mr. Wylder?” the doc says. Now they look confused.
“As you can see, Stella is small.” My eyes bounce back and forth between Stella and the doc. Their expressions alter to suspicion. “I want to make sure my baby won’t…”
“Won’t what?”
The silence continues. I’m starting to sweat. “Break her! You know––hurt her. There’s a good chance this baby ’ill be as big as a pony.”
A snort to my left gets my attention. I do a double take when I find Stella biting on her bottom lip. A tear slips out of the corner of her eye.
“Are you laughin’?”
“I can’t. I just can’t––” She barely gets the words out, wheezing between bursts of laughter. “Break me?” she repeats, followed by more laughter.
“If you weren’t so dang tiny, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m not tiny, Dane. Five-four is perfectly normal. It’s you who’s overgrown.”
Then she smiles at me. Teeth and everything. So damn pretty she takes my breath away.
“No, Mr. Wylder. The female body is remarkably resilient. Miss Donovan will be fine regardless of the size of the baby. She may need a C-section, but that’s completely routine.”
The doc’s condescending tone puts my mind at ease. I don’t give a single shit if she talks to me like I’m a moron as long as she keeps Stella safe.
“If you say so, Doc.” Another muffled burst of laughter comes from my left. Now that that’s taken care of, I take a deep, calming breath and clap my hands together. “Let’s make a baby.”
Stella
“No, I don’t want any company,” I say, speaking into my cell as I stare at the non-existent contents of my refrigerator. A lonely, mostly empty peanut butter jar taunts me. Not a single slice of bread anywhere to be found. I should order some take-out. “Because even though they say bed rest is encouraged, the numbers on whether it helps adhere the embryo are inconclusive…I’m trying to get some work done. I’m fine. Really.”
My doorbell rings. My doorbell should never ring unless my doorman has alerted me someone is on the way up. Immediately suspicious, I glance at my cell and see that I, in fact, did not receive a call from the doorman. “Mamá, I’ll call you later. Someone’s at the door.”
Ending the call, I walk to the front door and peer through the door viewer. It’s worth explaining that all I see is his chest…and then a wide grin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask the man standing on the other side. He raises both hands, showcasing bags of food from Serafina.
“I’m here to play Nurse Ratched.”
He hasn’t shown up in weeks, and now he’s here. If this isn’t the most confusing man on the planet, then I don’t know squat.
“I don’t need a nurse.” And then it dawns on me. “How did you get up here––unannounced? There are no women working the door.”
“Eddie is a fan.”
Of course, he is. I need to have a talk with Eddie.
“The food is gettin’ cold.”
“Pizza?” I grumble
“Yep, open the door.”
As soon as the door swings open, his gaze goes straight to the hair piled up on my head in a messy bun. Then it slides past my ratty Princeton sweatshirt, down my yoga leggings, and lands on my super fluffy Titans socks. The amusement drops right off his face.
“You said you aren’t a football fan.” One corner of his almond-shaped eyes twitches, his stubborn chin lifting in sanctimonious disapproval.
Oh brother.
“I’m not,” I say as I force back a smile at his expense. “But if I knew torturing you was going to be this much fun, I would’ve worn these the day we met. Shoes off.”
Arms loaded with bags of food, he toes off his motorcycle boots without losing balance for a second. Even though his athleticism was never in question, it’s amazing to witness firsthand. With all the running and yoga I do I still don’t have a tenth of his natural ability.
Grabbing one of the bags of food from him, I head to the kitchen. Without prompting, Dane trails after me.
“What’s with the socks? This amounts to treason in my book.”
I place the bag on the counter and begin opening take-out boxes, the aroma of food making me giddy with delight.
“Let’s not get dramatic.” I grab a couple of dishes out of the cupboard. “Camilla gave them as stocking stuffers.”
“I’ll get you a pair of Gladiator ones. I’ll get you a dozen.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say loading a plate with pasta and handing it to him. The pasta smells out-of-this-world good. Practically drooling, I start on mine.
“I can’t have my family walking around with Titans shiiii stuff on.”
At the mention of family, my breath hitches and my movements slow. “We’re not a family, Dane.”
A tan hand comes to rest on the counter, next to my dish. I stop what I’m doing and look up to discover an expression on his face that is not only determined, but very serious for once.
He studies me quietly for an amount of time long enough to make me uncomfortable. The in
tensity of his gaze has always thrown me off a little.
“You’re carrying my child. That makes us family…whether you like it or not, Shorty.” His voice is gentle, but the force behind it brooks no argument.
“We don’t know if I’m pregnant.”
“Let’s think positive. And you need to lie down. Doctor’s orders.”
“There’s no real data supporting––”
“The doctor said you should lie down,” he says, talking over me. “You wanna do somethin’ to jeopardize this baby?”
Sigh. I’m not going to argue over semantics. One of the things I’ve learned to appreciate about him is the transparency of his thoughts. I seldom have to guess what Dane is thinking or feeling because his face tells me. And right now I can tell by the look on his face he’s ready to argue to his last breath over this.
“Fine…but I don’t like to eat in bed.”
