“Good idea.”
She hurried down the hall. The Casey-Beavers lived in a one-story sprawling ranch, and—thank God—they wouldn’t have to negotiate the horrors of a staircase. Stealthily making her way down the corridor, she spied the target.
A white door with Oliver painted in whimsical lettering.
Bingo!
She raised her arms, channeling an enthusiastic tour guide, and waved for Jordan to join her.
“Easy,” she cautioned as he grew cocky and picked up a little too much steam for her liking.
Step by step, her big strong husband made his way toward her as little Ollie went on a raspberry bender. If she hadn’t known that the man was holding a baby, it would have sounded as if he’d just departed a bean eating contest—and won—by a landslide or a bean slide.
She chuckled to herself.
“What’s so funny?” Jordan asked, arriving with Ollie. “Wait, let me guess. Farting humor?”
She nodded as the boy released another rip-roaring raspberry, making her point.
She opened the door as Ollie shot off a few more. They stood in the doorway to the baby’s room and assessed the dim space. With a rocking chair in the corner next to a wooden crib, the room most definitely belonged to the little raspberry machine. A small lamp cast a dim golden glow, highlighting a dresser equipped with a changing table and a precious mural of a mountain scene, complete with skiers peppering the slope.
“Why don’t you sit in the chair, and I’ll pass him over to you,” Jordan offered as Ollie continued to serenade them with fart chorale.
She entered the baby powder-scented room, placed the bottle on a side table, then settled herself in the rocking chair.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
She flashed her husband two thumbs-up. “We are a go for bottle time.”
So far, so good! They’d successfully moved the baby from point A to point B.
The next challenge: filling him up with formula.
With the ease of a man who’s done a bazillion squats, Jordan lowered himself, inch by inch, positioning the baby into her arms.
“And three, two, one. We have infant touchdown,” he said through a sweet smile.
Yep, they were NASA-level baby passers.
The boy wiggled in her arms, then smacked his lips. She took a breath as Jordan handed her the bottle.
Real baby. Real bottle.
“I’m going in,” she said, then brushed the bottle’s nipple across his lips.
“Easy,” Jordan cautioned.
“And contact,” she whispered as the baby stopped dropping raspberries and started sucking the hell out of his dinner.
“Wow, he’s a total pro, and with all those raspberries, he probably could play the trumpet,” Jordan offered, pulling over an ottoman and sitting down to watch Oliver down eight ounces of formula as if he’d just finished a baby Iron Man.
Shrouded in the dim light and surrounded by stuffed animals, she leaned down and smelled Ollie’s head.
“He smells like spring rain.”
Jordan rested his hand on her knee and rubbed gentle circles with his thumb. “I wouldn’t know. All I’ve been able to smell for the last few months is pineapple from those dryer sheets,” he teased.
She gazed down at the boy. “He’s precious, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he sure is.”
She pulled her gaze away from the child and met her husband’s eye. “Do you have a preference?”
“For what?”
“For us. Do you think we’ll have a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t think of our baby like that,” he said as the light played off his dark tangle of hair.
“I hate to break it to you, but babies don’t come out gender-neutral like our Faby,” she answered, but Jordan wasn’t trying to be funny or evasive.
His expression grew pensive. “I don’t mean it like that. I think of our baby more like a part of us. No matter if it’s a boy or a girl, we’ll be a family, and this baby will be our everything.”
She blinked back tears.
“Are you all right? Are you hungry? Do you need to eat some pineapple? I’ve got five cans in the back of the car—in case of a pineapple emergency.”
She sniffled, overcome with emotion. “No, it’s not a pineapple emergency.”
“Then what?” he whispered.
“That might be one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said. And when I met you, you were such an asshat,” she answered on a teary exhale.
He cupped her face in his warm hand. “I love you, too, messy bun girl.”
Ollie turned his head from side to side, and she pulled the bottle back and handed it to Jordan. She rocked back and forth, inhaling the baby’s sweet scent. He released a lazy sigh before closing his eyes—so trusting and so innocent. She stared at his little nose and his delicate eyelashes, resting on porcelain cheeks, and all her worries about her mother’s reaction melted away. She’d been consumed with anxiety, wondering if she had what it took to be a mom, worrying she couldn’t do it all.
She stopped rocking and watched the baby sleep in her arms.
“I know when I want to tell my mom and Howard about the pregnancy,” she said, meeting Jordan’s gaze.
“You do?”
She nodded. “After the Battle of the Births gender reveal. It’s only a month away, and then, not only will we be telling them about the pregnancy, we’ll know if we’ll be welcoming a little miss or a little mister.”
“What do you think we’re having?” he asked, rubbing sweet, slow circles on her knee.
She relaxed into the rocker. For the first time in a long time, the twist of nerves in her chest loosened. Her breathing matched that of the peaceful, sleeping infant in her arms, and she exhaled a slow breath that seemed a long time coming.
An easy smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she gazed at the man, perched on a little blue ottoman, ready to give her and their baby the world. Perhaps, it was the cheesecake or the pineapple juice she drank before they’d left, but a slight flutter tickled in her belly.
“I don’t know, but in a few weeks, we’re going to find out.”
13
Jordan
Jordan cracked open his eyes and glanced out the window. A silvery haze hung in the darkness, signaling first light was at least a few hours off. His best guess? It had to be somewhere between four and five in the morning—probably closer to four. He shifted his large frame and untangled his legs from the bedsheet.
He’d always been a morning person—a morning person whose day usually started closer to seven a.m. rather than four. Still, he wasn’t complaining.
He rolled over and reached for his wife. But he wasn’t surprised to find her side of the bed empty. He was about to pull up the covers and get in a few more z’s when the clap of a cabinet, or maybe it was a door clicking shut, caught his attention.
Nesting.
That’s what Maureen had called it when he’d asked her what had happened to his wife, who, up until about a month ago, enjoyed sleeping until at least eight in the morning.
Now, she rose before the ass crack of dawn to reorder the spice rack, alphabetize their takeout menus, or empty out the linen closet, only to rewash and refold their sheets, blankets, and towels, then methodically place them back in their original resting spot. During another dawn nesting session, she’d doled out his protein powder, putting a perfectly measured scoop into forty reusable baggies so he wouldn’t have to measure the mixture when he was making his morning energy shake.