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My mom texted a few pictures of Hudson Blair Black as soon as she was born a few hours ago, but it’s so hard to see any real distinguishing features in the shaky pictures of joy that come immediately following the miracle of new life. I’m hoping to take a few of my own that don’t look like they’ve been shot mid-parajump from a 747.
The elevator dings its arrival on the fourth-floor maternity ward, and a herd of excited family members with balloons and stuffed animals and flowers steps out in front of me. I wonder briefly if I should have stopped in the gift shop to get something for Emory and the baby, but then I remember who I’m dealing with.
Emory is a good person, but she’s also snooty as all hell. If I was going to get her a gift she’d appreciate, I should have done it well outside the walls of this hospital.
Crying babies and busy medical staff create a chaotic background melody as I get buzzed through the secure doors that provide a layer of protection against babynapping, and a swirling mix of bleach and sterile medical equipment rounds out the olfactory element of the ambiance.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping up to the nurses station right inside the doors.
The obviously busy brunette nurse at the computer keeps typing but looks up at me at the same time. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Emory Black’s room. Room 407?”
She nods and gestures to the right with just her head. “It’s right down the hall there. It’ll be on your left.”
I smile as I say “Thanks,” but I’m already nothing but a memory. She’s got shit to do, and it’s all a whole lot more important than dealing with me.
I head the direction she instructed, and after a short walk down a long hallway lined with black-and-white photos of newborn babies, the room is there, on the left, just as she said it’d be.
The door is cracked a tiny bit, so I push it open slowly, knocking lightly at the same time. I feel like I have to announce my arrival somehow, but being the asshole who wakes up a sleeping newborn doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I want to add to my resume.
Emory’s best friend, Greer, is the first to notice me from her spot next to Emory’s bed on the other side of the large room, and she waves me in with a friendly hand.
She’s been in Emory’s life almost as long as I have and has spent more than her fair share of holidays with our family. Up until two or three years ago, she was always a part of Christmas Day.
I smile, jerking up my chin in greeting, and walk slowly through the crowd of people toward the bed.
“Well, well, well…look what the fucking cat dragged in,” Caplin Hawkins says loudly from the corner I couldn’t see when I came in. He is way less concerned with the consequences of waking a sleeping baby than I am, apparently. “If it isn’t Mr. Forbes Billionaire.”
As a reflex, I give him the finger. As my company’s lawyer, Cap’s been a part of my life since I was twenty-three. He has a brilliant mind and a real knack for corporate law, but he’s also a pain in the ass. Which is probably why he’s morphed so easily from the role of lawyer only to my friend.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” I tease back. “Always having to compare yourself to me? Do I need to arrange a strategy with your assistant for hiding articles when they come out about me?”
Cap laughs in a way only Caplin Hawkins can—maniacal and calculating and a sure sign I should expect some form of ridiculous payback—but I refocus on the reason I’m here.
My cousin and the beautiful baby she created.
“Congratulations, guys,” I say, stepping toward the hospital bed. One peek at a now-sleeping Hudson in her father Quincy’s arms, and I grin. “Goddamn, what a beauty.”
Perfect, angelic skin, full pink lips, jet-black hair, and long dark lashes, this little lady makes the Gerber baby look average.
“Obviously, she gets her looks from me,” Emory says, but her best friend Greer is more than ready to offer a sarcastic retort.
“Honestly, it’s hard to tell with all that makeup you’ve got caked on your face.”
Emory’s responding look is a glare that could penetrate walls. “At least I met my daughter without looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
“You and I both know that is exactly how I will meet my future daughter.” Greer laughs. “And you know I’m just kidding, Em. You look gorgeous. Kim Kardashian’s glam squad fucking wishes they could make her look that good post-birth.”
I roll my eyes. This is a typical Emory and Greer snark-war. I’ve been witness to it more times than I can count.
