Page 28 of Oops I Fell For The Lumberjack Next Door

The test goes into my cardigan pocket. Both tests, actually. I took two because the first one seemed too easy.

Through the kitchen, out the side door, across the yard. Tinsel falls into step beside me, tail going, convinced every walk is either an adventure or a feeding opportunity. The morning is warm. Blue sky. Mountains doing their mountain thing, enormous and indifferent and beautiful.

In the barn, Briggs is underneath the shearing platform, doing something mechanical that involves a socket wrench and a level of concentration that furrows his brow in a way I find unreasonably attractive. His boots stick out from under the equipment. Sawdust and grease on his forearms.

"Hey."

The socket wrench pauses. "Hey."

"Can you come out for a second?"

He slides out. Sits up. Beanie slightly askew, beard needing a trim, blue eyes finding me with the immediate, attentive focus he gives everything that matters. Tinsel pushes his nose into Briggs's palm.

"What's up?"

I pull the test from my pocket. Hold it out.

He looks at it. At me. Back at the test.

"Margot."

"Mmhm."

"Is that..." His voice trails off. He already knows.

"Two lines. Both tests. About six or seven weeks."

His face does something I've never seen before. Every careful wall this man has ever maintained, the measured patience, the quiet restraint, the fifteen years of carrying feelings without showing them, all of it dissolves in about two seconds. His eyes go bright. His mouth opens, closes. His hand comes up to take the test, then drops back to his knee, then comes up again.

"We're having a baby."

"We're having a baby."

He stands. One motion. Full height. The socket wrench clatters to the barn floor. His hands find my face. Rough, greasy, warm. He holds me steady, forehead against mine.

"I love you."

"I love you too. Also your hands are covered in motor oil, and it's now on my face."

"I don't care." He kisses me. Deep. Thorough. Tasting like the coffee he had this morning and something underneath that's pure Briggs, familiar now in a way that steadies everything. When he pulls back, his thumbs trace my cheekbones, smearing oil across my skin, and he's grinning. Full. Unguarded. Teeth and everything.

"We gotta tell my mom."

"Not yet."

"She's going to find out."

"It's been nine minutes, Briggs."

"She already knows. I guarantee it. My mother has a sixth sense for reproductive news. She probably felt a disturbance in the force the second that line turned pink."

As if the universe wants to prove him right, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out.

Mom:

Good morning sweetheart! Just checking in. No reason. Anything new? How's Margot feeling? She looked a little peaked at Sunday dinner. Just an observation!! xo

We stare at the screen.