Page 38 of Kicking Up Dust

To his benefit, he does stop immediately.

“Sorry,” he says, muffled, and even with my eyes closed, I know he’s biting the skin around his fingers. I’m surprised they’re not bleeding. The sound of the spit in his mouth as he pulls his finger away and wipes it on his pants grates at my nerves too. And the overall audacity. He got onto me when I bit the skin around my nails. “I’m just so fucking nervous. You’re not nervous?”

“No.”

“How are you not nervous?”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Colt scoffs like he’s going to argue, but I open my eyes long enough to glare at him and it shuts him up. I’ll be a better person when I pee, I promise.

“They’re just going to confirm things we already know. She’s healthy. She’s a girl. You could’ve stayed at the ranch and saved yourself the anxiety.”

“Fuck that,” he says with another scoff, readjusting in the chair so that his legs are splayed out in front of him. It’s a bit rude, but there’s no one else in the waiting room, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. “I wanna be at every appointment. Everything. Plus, I have questions.”

I’d probably find that cute if my bladder wasn’t about to burst. I’m just about to be that annoying bitch that complains to the receptionist about how long things are taking when the door opens and the nurse finally calls us back.

“Whittaker?” As though we’re not the only ones in the room. I’m so desperate to get back to the room that I don’t even correct the name. She must’ve ignored my name on the paperwork and assumed I was Colt’s wife, which was annoying, but not as annoying as the ache in my bladder. There was something about needing to pee that made everything else in the world a lot more irrelevant.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Whittaker?”

“Just Blair, please,” I say, trying to be kind as I take a seat on the table she directs me to. “I feel fine. I really have to pee.”

She looks at me sympathetically, but not sympathetically enough to let me pee, apparently. “Go ahead and lie back, and we’ll get started.”

Used to this from the appointments back in Cali, I roll the waistband of my yoga pants down a bit and ruck my shirt up until my bump is out. Colt’s breath hitches and it only occurs to me then that he hasn’t seen my stomach since the night in the hotel. I give him a small smile and reach for his hand. He scoots the chair closer to the bed to hold mine.

I watch Colt more than I watch the screen. He looks… transfixed. I’ve never seen anyone look at something with as much love in their eyes as Colt is looking at the screen when the sonographer turns it around for us to see, confirming the baby’s sex and measuring her. He lights up when the sound of our baby’s heartbeat fills the room, but I have to look away when he starts to cry.

I should’ve told him. I should’ve told him as soon as I found out. I shouldn’t have let him miss so much. But I wouldn’t let him miss anything else.

“Everything looks good to me. Blair, I’ve got enough pictures if you’d like to go to the bathroom now,” the sonographer says forty-five minutes later.

“Oh, thank god.” I make a fool of myself trying to sit up, but thankfully, I’ve got a helping hand on either side. I draw the line at Colt walking me to the bathroom though.

“I’ll be right back,” I promise and gesture toward the sonographer, who’s trying to get his attention so she can pass him the ultrasound printouts.

She’s gone when I come out of the bathroom.

“How are you feeling, cowboy?” I ask Colt, rubbing his shoulder as he looks down at the pictures. He wraps his arm behind my back, tugging me down onto his thigh.

It’s intimate, probably way too intimate for a doctor’s office and definitely way too intimate for two people who aren’t even dating, but it feels right for the moment. I reach over to wipe a tear from his cheek with a small smile.

“She’s so fucking perfect, Blair,” he says, voice cracking.

“She is,” I agree. “She looks much more baby-like this time.”

He lets out a watery laugh. “Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a minute or two while he flips through all of the pictures. I could probably get up, but I don’t want to, instead making myself more comfortable with my legs between his, leaning against his chest with a yawn. Making a kid is exhausting.

“She said the doctor would be in soon and then we’d be able to go.”

I don’t mean to nod off, but I guess I must because when the door opens and the doctor comes in with a booming, “Hello, Blair!” I jolt in Colt’s tattooed arms.

“Easy, mama,” he says, steadying me as I stand.

The doctor waves his hand toward us while he goes to the sink to wash them.