Page 143 of Run to Me

Warmth suffuses my cheeks. I want to look away from his piercing gaze or roll my eyes again or something, but I can’t. Instead, I say, “Okay, that one wasn’t too bad.”

He bends down and whispers, “Because it’s the truth.” Then he kisses me. It’s a closed-mouth kiss since we’re in a family-friendly venue, but we let it linger.

Pulling away, he offers me his arm. “Together, birdie? I promise I won’t let you fall.”

I loop my arm through his. Safe. Secure. “Fine. But don’t go too fast.”

Standing in Jake and Tatum’s living room, I hold out my hands and say, “Give me your baby.”

Tatum’s wearing a onesie with gold and blue stars, twinning with her newborn son, Lennon. She pulls him tighter to her chest and angles her body away from me like I might snatch him and run.

“Excuse me?”

I wiggle my fingers. “Hand him over.”

“Um…” Her alarmed gaze swings toward Lucy.

Our friend lazes comfortably in leggings and a long sweatshirt on the opposite end of the leather sectional. Because she’s used to our antics, she ignores Tatum’s silent plea for help and continues flipping through one of the many parenting magazines on the end table.

“You want to hold him?” Tatum asks, seeking confirmation.

To be fair, I deserve the dubious expression on her face. I’ve never held a real baby, including the one my best friend gave birth to five days ago. Jensen and I were cleaning out the closet in Jake’s old bedroom when our phones pinged with a text alert. Tatum was in labor two weeks early.

We rushed to the hospital, and she gave birth to her perfectly healthy son a few hours after we arrived. Jensen, the proud uncle, smiled from ear to ear with watery eyes as he held his nephew. Meanwhile, I fussed over Tatum, hoping no one would notice I didn’t hold baby Lennon. Apparently, she noticed.

“Yes, I want to hold him.”

“Why?” she whispers, wide eyes darting around again. “Am I being punked?”

With a huff, I explain, “I need to know if I have motherly instincts.”

“Motherly instincts,” she repeats. “And you want to use Lennon as a test baby?”

“Exactly.” When she gawks at me like I’ve lost my mind, I repeat my request with a kinder tone. “Please give me your baby.”

“Hold Marcella.”

I glance at the toddler in question. Marcella learned to walk, and she’s using the coffee table for support while adding squats to her mobility repertoire. A pacifier hangs from one side of her mouth like a cigar as she stares at me. Always staring.

“She doesn’t like me,” I grumble.

Lucy laughs and says, “Marcella likes you. She’s just an observer like her dad.”

I definitely feel observed.

Minutes later, I’m cradling Lennon while Tatum breathes down my neck. She shows me how to support his head, how to position my arms, how to speak in soothing tones. She’s quite bossy.

“I want to get my phone and take a picture of this, but I’m scared to leave you unattended,” she says.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

A soft squeak comes from Lennon, and I look at her with panic written all over my face. “Babies make noises,” she assures me. “Just relax. He can sense how stressful this is for you.”

I shuffle my butt away from the edge of the couch and sink into the cushions. Tatum hums a song in her light, soothing soprano, and we gaze at him while he sleeps. Although he’s only days old, there’s no doubt he’s a Holloway with his dark, thick hair and olive undertones. I see Jake’s face when I look at him. And Jensen’s face.

Lennon’s tiny cheek feels silky soft against my knuckles. The phrase baby smooth makes perfect sense now. His little pink mouth moves, and the fuller bottom lip becomes more prominent. Another Holloway trait. He’s adorable, and my hypothetical baby would look similar to Lennon.

My baby.