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“There’s loads of those. Keep an eye out before I toss you on my back.”
“Oh, no. Have we awakened some wild protective instinct within you?”
“Don’t even joke about it, Eva, or I will spirit you out of this forest and onto a perfectly safe path elsewhere.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What if there are cracks in the pavement? Or slabs that aren’t quite right? Or a broken kerb?”
“Are you trying to drive me insane with all the things that could go wrong?”
Her lips twisted into a small smile. “You know, it’s not the end of the world if I stub my toe. I am allowed to live.”
“I don’t know. Locking you in the library for the next eight months until the baby is born seems like a perfectly viable option to me.”
“Matthew, you’re acting like a caveman. It’s quite the departure from your usual gentlemanly self.”
“I’m sorry, would you like me to hold the tree root open for you?”
“I would like to see you try to wrestle the tree root out.”
Baxter bounded back through the trees with a stick in his mouth. He’d taken a liking to it as soon as we’d gotten out of the car, and we’d spent the last twenty minutes slowly walking the red squirrel trail and throwing it for him.
Without the rain, this time.
Eva took the stick from Baxter’s mouth. He dropped on his haunches to sit with his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and she chucked it through the trees, adding a quick, “Go!”
Baxter took off, and she turned to me. “That wasn’t even the same stick.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “He loves sticks. I’m not sure he’s ever grown out of being a puppy.”
“I don’t think he has. He’s insane.”
“That’s one way to describe him. Tree root.”
Eva avoided yet another protruding tree branch by carefully stepping over it. Baxter returned, but this time, he was happy to trot along behind us with whatever stick he’d found in his mouth.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
“Better after eating.”
“That’s not really what I was asking.”
Eva sighed and reached up, pulling her hair into a messy knot on top of her head. She popped a hairband off her wrist and secured it, then let her arms fall to the sides. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, I’m not unhappy. Honestly, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.”
“If it helps, I feel the same way.”
“You do?” She looked over at me, uncertainty flashing in her eyes.
I nodded. “It’s a huge change, and I’m just now thinking about all the things we need to do. Can you think of how much it’s going to cost to put baby gates in the house?”
Eva bit the side of her lower lip and dipped her chin. Her shoulders trembled with a quiet laugh that she desperately tried to hide. “That’s not all. All the cupboards will need locking, the fridge, even the toilet.”
“I’m not putting a child lock on the toilet, Eva. Nan will be forever calling us to get there and undo it for her.”
“That’s true. She needed help to get into the biscuit tin yesterday.”
“She always needs help to get in the biscuit tin. Why do you think we don’t replace it?” I smirked. “Keeps her hobnob obsession under control.”
“Hobnobs? Who is obsessed with hobnobs? Chocolate digestives I understand. Bourbons? Sure. Custard creams? Adelaide never puts them down. Heck, I’d even understand shortbread.” She paused. “Oh, shortbread. Millionaire shortbread. Bloody hell, now I want some.”
I eyed her. “Is that a craving?”
“Already? No. That’s just me being a greedy cow.” She shrugged, unbothered, and avoided yet another tree root. “This path could break someone’s neck.”
“I know,” I said dryly. “That’s why I was going to carry you. I’d prefer you didn’t break yours.”
“Yes, but if you carry me and you trip, both of us will have a broken neck, and then your nan will have to raise the baby.”
The mere thought made me want to cry.
Not that she would do a bad job—she’d raised my father and uncle, after all, but I would prefer my child not to grow up to be a psychic knitter.
I said as much, too.
“I don’t know,” Eva mused. “Being a psychic knitter would have its qualities.”
“I don’t think I agree.”
“Why not? Think of the business opportunities. You could guess the gender and give knitted baby booties. Predict the weather and sell scarves. Go to funfairs and throw woolly hats at people who look cold.”
“Is that a plan for Nan or for yourself?”
“For myself in sixty years, absolutely.” She nodded and tossed a grin in my direction. “I just have to learn to knit.”
“I think Nan would be happy to teach you that.”
“Terrifying prospect,” she muttered, reaching her fingertips down and scratching Baxter’s head. “We might end up stabbing each other half to death.”
