The One Love Collection Page 53

  I shake off the new thoughts. “I’m good. Let’s get you checked out.”

  We head inside. We aren’t seen quickly, and I suppose I should take that as a sign that she’s fine. An hour later, she’s called in, and I rise to join her when the curly-haired nurse gives me a steely glare. “Just the patient.”

  “But she’s eighteen weeks pregnant,” I say, and those are magic words. The nurse’s expression transforms, and even though she surely knows Nicole’s knocked up since Nicole disclosed it when we checked in, I bet there’s something about hearing the guy with the pregnant woman say it aloud that activates a sympathy bone. The nurse doesn’t know I’m the donor. She figures I’m the dad, and that’s good enough to give me full-time access to the mom-to-be.

  She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You can come with her. But be quiet.”

  I mime zipping my lips.

  Ten minutes later, the nurse has taken Nicole’s blood pressure and vitals, and says an ER doctor will be here any minute. She leaves, and I’m alone with Nicole, who’s perched on an exam table, cradling her wrist in her lap.

  “You know I’m fine, right?” she asks, gently chiding me.

  “That’s why we’re here. To make sure.”

  “I’m okay. I told you I’m okay.” But she doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds like she wants to reassure me.

  “It’s not just you, Nicole. It’s you and the baby.” I gently place my hand on her belly, and touching her bump feels as good as it did the first time. She smiles and presses her hand on top of mine.

  “How does it feel?” she asks, her voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh lights and sharp noises beyond the curtain.

  “Amazing,” I whisper.

  “I know, right? I’m barely showing, but every day my little bump astonishes me.”

  “Has the baby kicked yet?” Hope rises in me. The hope that she’ll say yes, and that I might feel it.

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. Probably another month.”

  I turn my hand over and thread my fingers through hers. It feels so right to hold her hand.

  Another smile is my reward, and so is the swift appearance of a doctor, striding into the room.

  “Dr. Summers.” He extends a hand. He’s young, and his hazel eyes are kind. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  He wheels a machine closer to the table, grabs an ultrasound wand, and slicks some gel on Nicole’s belly. As he roams her stomach like a man trawling the beach for buried treasure, he stares at the screen.

  Naturally, I stare at the screen, too, jaw agape.

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking baby.

  Holy perfect baby. It’s all curled up, but I can see the shape of the baby’s head. The curve of the back. The knees tucked up.

  It is awesome, and I don’t mean awesome like the sandwich I had for lunch was awesome. Seeing your baby is awesome in the true sense of the word—I am filled with astonishment.

  That astonishment coils into something even more intense when a noise bursts into the room. It sounds like hoofs beating.

  I. Can’t. Breathe.

  I’m listening to our baby’s heart, and it’s the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. I swear it moves through me, stirring up an unexpected kaleidoscope of emotions that’s magnified when I meet Nicole’s eyes. They’re wet, filled with happy tears. It’s almost too much for me to take, and I blink, looking away. When I do, I realize it’s because my eyes are threatening to fill with tears, too.

  My throat catches, and I swallow roughly.

  It’s as if I’ve been punched in the gut, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels shockingly wonderful, and I want to remember this moment forever. I want to recall every second of my own amazement.

  “Sounds like you’ve got one healthy baby in there,” the doctor says with a smile as he wipes the gel off Nicole’s stomach. After a quick examination of her hand, he decides it looks like it’s sprained, but can be treated with ice, an ACE wrap, and, ideally, no ibuprofen. As he writes up his orders, I meet Nicole’s eyes once more. Neither one of us says a word. We just hold each other’s gazes, and I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing—our baby is healthy.

  She flashes me a smile, and I return it with a goofy grin of my own.

  Holy shit. Our baby is healthy.

  I want to take a snapshot of this moment. I want to record every second of this strange and joyous connection I feel with her and the life growing inside her.

  The doctor leaves us alone, and I bend my face to her belly and press the gentlest kiss to her skin. “Hi, baby,” I say, and I know, I fucking know, that I’m already in love with our child.

  I take her home. I ice her wrist then reapply the wrap. I walk her dog around the block. When I return, I ask her if she wants me to spend the night.

  “Yes.”

  Romeo is already at the kennel since I leave on my trip the next day, so I don’t need to call the dog-sitter. I drop my keys with the tadpole charm on the living room table next to my phone. I take off my jeans and sweater, but that’s all. I’m not going to try anything with Nicole, given her damaged wrist. Besides, I’m not here to make a move on her. I’m here to take care of the mother of my child.

  She wears fuzzy pajama bottoms with snowmen on them, and a black tank. Her breasts look bigger. I keep that thought to myself. Now is not the time to compliment those beauties. She slides under the covers, and after I brush my teeth with an extra brush she says I can use, I join her in bed. She yawns, then sighs.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you,” I say.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking care of me tonight.”

  “It’s the only place I wanted to be.”

  She yawns again.

  “All right, sleepy baby. Let’s make sure you get some rest.”

  She flips to her side, and I move closer, draping an arm over her. “Is this okay? Does it hurt your wrist?”

  “No. It feels good.”

  “Yeah. It feels really good,” I echo.

  Nighttime shrouds us, and shadows play on the dark walls.

  “Did you like hearing the heartbeat?” Her voice is an imprint on the air. It feels like a wish. A hope.

  I run my fingers through her hair and answer with my whole heart. “I loved it.”

  “Me, too.” Her voice is feathery. “When I first heard it, I wished you could hear it, too.”

  “Yeah?” I might be grinning like a fool.

  “I did. I wanted you to experience it, too. It’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.”

  “It really is magical.” I press a kiss to the back of her neck, and before I know it, she’s asleep in my arms.

  In the morning, it pains me to have to say good-bye. But work calls, and I’ve got to hit the road for a few weeks, right when I’m starting to feel so much for both of them.

  30

  Nicole

  Penny plucks the pouch of a pair of maternity jeans, pulling it taut like a slingshot. She fires and the blue cotton bounces. “Oh! Look at the stretchiness! This is such a winner.”

  I narrow my eyes at her and deliver my absolute best you’ve got to be kidding me stare. “Those. Are. Hideous.”

  Penny bats her eyelashes. “They’re a building block.” Her voice is pure innocence. “A stepping stone to mom jeans.”

  “Did someone say mom jeans?” Delaney rushes to us with a shirt wadded in her hand. “Your mom jeans would go so well with your new peekaboo.”

  She unfolds it with a ta-da and strikes a pose.

  I mime gagging. The shirt has a cutout over the belly. “Why? Tell me. Why on earth does that exist? Who even authorized a cutout maternity T-shirt?”

  Delaney cracks up. “If you were a fashion writer, you’d have to do a column on the five worst maternity items.”

  Penny snaps her fingers. “I know one to include. That Christmas maternity shirt that said ‘Santa’s Favorite Ho.’”


  I laugh. “That is totally going on the list.”

  Delaney hangs up the holey shirt then adjusts her bright blond ponytail. “Have you found anything you like?”

  I shake my head. “Not a single stitch of fabric. Am I just too picky?”

  “No way. You can never be too picky with clothes,” Penny says, her brown eyes intense. “Let’s keep looking.”

  We wander through the racks in the maternity section of a department store in Brooklyn that we traveled to for this purpose. The chichi maternity boutiques in Manhattan are just too pricey for items I’ll wear only a few times. As Penny considers a rack of tent-like shirts, my phone pings.

  My Pavlovian response kicks in.

  Butterflies descend into my chest.

  I grab my cell and slide my finger over the screen.

  Ryder: Look. I’m just going to be blunt here. That okay with you?

  In the two weeks he’s been gone, our texts have veered from gentle concern over my wrist—it’s totally fine now—to flirty, so I have a hunch I’ll enjoy his bluntness.

  Nicole: I like blunt. Especially blunt hardness.

  Ryder: Yes, blunt hardness is apt, since I need to tell you that your boobs look spectacular.

  Nicole: You were always a big fan of the girls.

  Ryder: I’m their number one fan. I had one of those big foam fingers commissioned to say Number One Fan of Your Tits. But it seemed a little too—how shall we say—inappropriate to actually wave around.

  Nicole: Appropriateness is overrated.

  Ryder: Anyway, I noticed the spectacularness of your chest last time I saw you.

  Ryder: Let me amend that. I always notice your breasts. They are always spectacular. And now they’re at a whole new level of spectacularity.

  Ryder: Fuck, now I’m really fucking turned on, and I have to go on air. Thanks a lot for having such perfect tits.

  Nicole: I wish I could say I was sorry that my boobs are distracting you from 2,000 miles away, but I’m not. I’ll leave you with this thought—they’re even more sensitive now.

  Ryder: Did you hear me groan across half the continent? Dear Lord, woman. What are you doing to me?

  Nicole: Distracting you, since I’m buying a new lacy bra to hold my bigger boobs in.

  Ryder: I demand pictorial evidence.

  As I contemplate the best angles for shooting a selfie boob-shot later tonight, I look up from my phone. I flinch when I see Penny tapping her Converse-sneakered toe against the floor. Delaney joins in, beating out a rhythm with her dove-gray boots.

  Both stand with arms crossed.

  The sharp look in two pairs of eyes reads busted.

  “I couldn’t help but notice Ryder’s name pop across your screen.” Penny sounds like a cop interrogating a suspect.

  “And I couldn’t help but notice the ridiculously silly grin on your face,” Delaney adds.

  “Umm . . .” But I’ve got no alibi. No excuse. I’m flirting with my baby daddy.

  “What’s going on?”

  I sigh, shrug, and hold out my hands. “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re texting, as in sexting him?”

  I grip my phone tighter, the words we just sent—words like boob and hard—flashing as neon signs before my eyes. “I think so.”

  Delaney gives me a sharp stare. “Think? You of all people should know what sexting is. Were you or weren’t you?”

  “We were,” I admit.

  “Were you going to tell us?”

  “That we were sexting?” I furrow my brow. “That hardly seems like something I need to issue a bulletin for.”

  “Nicole,” Delaney says, admonishing, “this isn’t flirting with an ex. You’re flirting with the guy who knocked you up.”

  They point in unison at my belly. I’m twenty weeks now. It’s no longer flat. My stomach is a crescent moon, and I love it.

  Penny rests her arm on the silvery bar of a rack of tunics. “Is something happening between you guys?”

  I drop my face to my hands momentarily, hiding behind my utter I-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-ness. But this isn’t my style. I don’t run from things. I don’t hide. I look up and meet the twin gazes of my best friends. “I like him so much,” I say, though that hardly feels like enough. It barely covers the way his kisses make me weak in the knees, how his touch is both reassuring and an absolute turn-on, how my stomach executes backflips when he stares at me like he wants to eat me up. And like doesn’t even skim the surface of how my heart soared when he took care of me a few weeks ago after my fall, treating me like I was the most precious thing in the universe.

  My throat hitches. “He’s kind of amazing.”

  Penny clasps a hand to her chest and sighs dreamily.

  Delaney shoots her a look then turns to me. “It’s not that simple. Amazing isn’t what this is about. You gave me tough love when I was debating whether to give Tyler a second chance. It’s your turn to be the recipient.”

  I back up to the mirror, lean against it, and beckon with a curl of my fingers. Bring it on. I can handle it.

  Delaney talks into her fist. “He’s the father of your child.” She drops the imaginary mic.

  “You’re falling for the father of your baby,” Penny says, stating the obvious because, evidently, it needs to be stated.

  “I don’t know if it’s falling in love,” I say, trying to approach my feelings like a show topic. “How would I know, after all? I’ve never felt that before. It might just be pregnancy hormones. You’ve got to understand, everything feels good right now. In the second trimester, you’re like this gigantic walking endorphin. Every single thing is wonderful. I’m all happy hormones and love right now.”

  “I know, but even so,” Delaney says, keeping on point, “what are you going to do?”

  I’m a planner. I should have a plan, but I don’t. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Delaney tries to provide one for me. “If you guys are spending time together, don’t you think that might mean he wants to be involved with the kid?”

  I flash back to Ryder’s reaction to the heartbeat. To the magic I saw in his eyes. To his care and concern for the baby. And it hits me. He’s falling for his child.

  Talk about endorphins.

  I’m made of nothing else right now. I float to the ceiling of the store, and I don’t even need a bouquet of balloons to hold on to.

  But I drop back down with Penny’s next words. “Are you going to amend your agreement?”

  Right. We have a contract. We have no expectations. He has no parental rights.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes.”

  And later that night, it goes like this.

  I slide into my new black, lacy bra. It makes my breasts rise even higher. The swells of flesh are visible against the lace. I take aim, snapping a few shots.

  I send one to him.

  His reply is instantaneous.

  Ryder: You’re an angel. And I want to bury my face between those beauties.

  More replies rain down, rapid fire, ping after ping on my phone.

  Ryder: Kiss them, suck them, pinch them.

  Ryder: Worship them.

  Ryder: Kiss you everywhere.

  Ryder: I want my tongue everywhere on you.

  Flames lick my body, and I do the next logical thing. He doesn’t even ask for it. But I take off the bra. And I snap another photo. No nipples. But plenty of flesh. I hit send.

  Ryder: If you don’t hear from me, assume I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  And so have I, because minutes later, I’m starfished on my bed, my new vibrator playing his role, as I call out Ryder’s name when I come.

  Attraction has always been the easy part. I’ll figure out the hard stuff some other night.

  31

  Ryder

  Time slows and speeds at once.

  The trip is both amazing and frustrating.

  I finally feel as if I have my groove back when it comes to work. The sh
ow is a blast, and the events Hanky Panky Love has set up in cities around the country energize me. We’re not talking Tony Robbins stadium-sized crowds, but a couple-dozen attendees soon turns into fifty, which turns into a cool grand. I do the radio shows live from the stage, taking questions from the audience, and everyone has a blast. Cal even sends an email telling me he’s pleased.

  That’s all he says. Literally.

  From: Cal Tomkin

  To: Ryder Lockhart

  Re: Your work

  I’m pleased.

  Honestly, that’s all a man needs from the guy who signs his paychecks. The next thing I know, my lit agent sends an email, too, and tells me sales for my book ticked up, and Got Your Back is going into another print run. It’s been ages since that’s happened. I tell my agent I’m thrilled, but we need to change the bio on the jacket. It takes me forever to write a new one, which is slightly embarrassing since it’s so short.

  Ryder Lockhart loves his family, his dog, and spending time with good friends and good people.

  It’s the truth, and it’s also true that my life now doesn't hurt like it used to.

  One night in San Francisco, after a workout at the hotel gym and a hot shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and stride across the room to grab my buzzing cell phone.

  A bead of water slides down my chest as I open a text from Nicole. Nerves tighten my gut. There’s this ever-present worry now that any message from her could bring bad news. I’m not a pessimist by nature, but I’ve accepted this worry.