by S. E. Hall
“Sawyer, you got me too much,” I argue.
“Zip it.” He air smooches to soften the blow of his directive. “Happy birthday, Emmy.” He hands me the gift and climbs back beside me.
“When’s your birthday?”
“May fifteenth. Now open it.”
Peeling back the paper, I snicker at the excited man by my side, twitchy with anticipation more so even than me. “Oh my,” I gasp, moisture building in my eyes.
It’s a black leather journal with “Shorty” embossed on the front, accompanied by a black and gold pen.
“Sawyer,” I turn to him, not quite sure what to say besides, “thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, love. No more tiny notepads in your back pocket. You deserve a big, badass place for your thoughts.”
I go in for a chaste kiss on his lips. “You still can’t read them.”
“Dammit,” he grumbles. “I can see your nipples but not your notes?”
My head falls back on my laugh. “They’re not notes!”
“Pussy but not your passages?”
“Better,” I set aside the gifts, “but still, no.”
THE SWEETEST THINGS
THE BIRTHDAY WEEKEND with Sawyer was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life—and way too short. Driving home, I can actually feel my mood start to sour the closer we get to reality. Not that our real life isn’t spectacular, because he makes it so, but still…
He takes hold of my hand. “Babe, we can go back soon, I promise.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Lil’ bit.” He smiles. “Here, I got something for the baby.” He releases my hand to fiddle with the radio while driving. “The book said babies can hear voices and music, so… I give you…La Baby Lullabies.”
Me, the mother, should probably think of these things, but I must confess that it does something to me to watch him get so involved, so excited at his discoveries.
The first song is slow and peaceful, something about the moon. Not bad. We smile at each other, an endearing moment of classical music that of course we both find painful to the ears, but good for our baby.
The second song is morbid, about falling out of a tree or a swing or something. “Oh my God,” I gasp, shocked someone thought this song would comfort a baby. “That’s awful. They said—”
“I heard.” He slams the “off” button. “Bastards.”
“I think Alex is a Bruno Mars baby.” I reach up, plugging in my phone and searching artists.
“Alex?” he asks, turning down “It Will Rain.”
“Cute, right? And unisex.”
Sawyer goes silent, highly unusual, and drops his shoulders. “Yeah, cute.”
“Hey,” my hand finds his now and squeezes, “what just happened? The CD was very sweet. We can try some other songs if you want.”
“That CD blew—babies falling to their deaths? Fuck Rock-A-Bye,” he grumbles, his grip on the steering wheel noticeably tightening.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Or something.”
“I guess I kinda thought we’d pick the baby’s name together,” he says softly.
Oh. Well, if a Sawyer pout isn’t the sexiest, most charming thing ever, I just don’t know what is.
“God, you’re the best man alive,” I whisper, constantly astounded by the many sides of Sawyer. “Babe, I have to call the baby something and we don’t know what we’re having, so I thought Alex was a cute unisex nickname, for now. I wouldn’t pick the name without you. Promise.”
He cuts his eyes to me skeptically, that luscious bottom lip of his pulling up in the corner. “Alex works for now.”
“You let me know if you think of something better,” I suggest, hiding my smirk.
“SURPRISE!”
I look around my living room, startled. There are no balloons and nothing’s changed, the only occupants Laney, Bennett and Whitley, who are all three beaming at us and clapping. I’m not sure what the surprise is exactly, but I thank them anyway.
“I take it we’re good?” Sawyer asks them over my shoulder.
“Yes!” Whitley squeals, jumping up and down like we just won the lottery.
“We’ll be going,” Laney says with a grin, pulling the other two by their shirts. “We hope you like it, Emmett. All Sawyer’s idea.”
Bennett nods, confirming the credit to Sawyer.
Once he’s hugged them all and walked them out, he comes back wearing a huge smile of his own. “Come on.” He links our hands and leads me down the hall to the door of the spare bedroom. “Ready, mama?”
“Ready.”
He opens the door, stepping to the side to let me enter first. “Wow,” he whistles, “they nailed it.”
Oh. My. God.
If I closed my eyes and envisioned the exact, perfect space where I would want to lay my sweet baby down each night, this would be it.
He’d planned and executed my dream nursery.
The walls are green, with various critters and trees spread around the room—a few rabbits, a lamb, squirrels and the cutest little deer. And of course, one single butterfly flying toward the ceiling, where the paint becomes a pale blue and turns the ceiling into a perfect sky with clouds. This is what our precious Alex will see when looking up, kicking those tiny feet.
Covering the line between green and blue are swirly, scripted words around the entire perimeter of the room. “Always Kiss Me Goodnight,” then a heart, “Our First Miracle,” another heart, “Wish Upon a Star.”
Sawyer’s laugher shatters my trance. “What?” I ask.
He points above the closet. “‘Play ball.’ Not one I wrote down.” He shakes his head and grins. “Good ole Aunt Gidge.”
Aunt. I never dreamed it’d actually ever be, and there it is—this baby will have a family. I will have a family, the head of it the exact man I would have hand-picked if granted a wish.
“I can’t believe you did this.” I stand on my tiptoes, curling my arms around his shoulders. “It’s beyond perfect,” I take a deep breath, hoping the word pleading to be released doesn’t send him packing, “Daddy.”
“Daddy,” he repeats me on a breath. “Daddy,” he says again, as though taste testing it, followed closely by a tender look of delight. His dark blue eyes take on an unmistakable shine and he meets my forehead with his own, grinning. “Very cool.”
I fall in love with him all over again in that moment. “It suits you.” I pucker, offering my lips ‘cause I can’t reach his on my own.
He pauses, withholding his kiss. “Do you really like it? I didn’t want to overstep, but I saw it in a magazine and thought—”
“Magazine?”
He shrugs. “Doctor’s office. They really should be ashamed of how long they make people wait. Why even set appointment times if you’re never gonna hit them?”
“I don’t know,” I giggle at his exaggerated frustration, not at all a cover for the fact he’s embarrassed he reads the magazines. “But yes, I love this nursery, and you could never overstep because there is no line.”
“No lines, very promising,” he teases, pinching my butt. “You are awful,” I titter, shaking my head. “We’re standing in the nursery.”
“That’s bad?” His brows furrow, but he recovers quickly. “I mean, that’s bad. Ok, so I thought tomorrow after class we could go pick out a crib together. I didn’t figure I’d push my luck, picking too much. And then the name thing. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about being a huge hypocrite.” He grabs the back of his neck, ducking his face.
“You know, I never have to worry about being mad at you. You get mad enough at yourself, for nothing, for both us.” I poke him in the stomach, unsuccessfully as my finger bends back against the firmness there, but he does lift his head to me now, grinning. “We can go look at cribs, sounds fun. Did you know, my gramma told me a story once, that when my mom was born, unplanned, eleven months after her older sister, they were so poor that they turned a dresser to
the wall and used a drawer? True story.” He scowls. “We’re getting a crib.”
“I know, silly, I’ve just always thought it was a cool story.”
“Cool story, babe, but do not tell it again.” He grumbles under his breath, something about babies falling from trees and being shoved in drawers, then finally returns the kiss I’ve been waiting for…but with a tight, grumpy mouth. “You done in here for now?”
“I guess so,” I take another look around, sighing wistfully.
“We can stay in here all night if you want.”
“No, I’m good, for now. Hey! Let’s walk over so I can thank the girls. This was so sweet of them.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty great. Remind me to tell you that story one day, how Laney and Whitley met and became friends, it’s a classic.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “But for now, you go on.” He caresses my cheek, kissing my forehead. “I’ll unpack the car and meet you down there.”
“You sure?” I pout, pathetically not wanting to be without him. After a few days locked away in Wonderland together, you get clingy I guess. “I could wait, and help.”
“Nope, you go. I’ll even start the laundry. Anything to buy time from hearing the play by play of every brushstroke from three possessed women.”
“Fine, but hurry.”
His right brow lifts. “Why Miss Emmett, are you jonesing for your man?” One hand snakes around and grabs my ass, pulling me against him. “I can fix that for ya.”
“Not in the nursery!” I shriek, disgusted, pushing at his chest.
I’m swept up before I can blink, both his strong hands lifting me and turning to leave the room. “I can fix that too. Pick a room.”
Damn he’s strong, and sexy…and so sly. I’m tempted, but resist. “Babe, I need to go say thank you.”
“He knew you were gonna say that.” He sets me down and looks at his dick with a sigh. “Sorry, bud. I was rootin’ for ya.”
ONE SCREW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST
AT FIRST, I thought Em had a specific crib in mind and knew where to get it and that was the reason she boycotted Babies ‘R Us, laughed at Brooke Ashley’s Boutique, and refused to exit the vehicle at Four Monkeys. I finally told her just to tell me where to go.
All I got was right, left, straight…which is how she got away with stopping me in front of a resale shop.
Am I snob? No. I wore shoes from The Salvation Army after one of my foster brothers outgrew them.
Am I gonna let my baby sleep on used shit? Hell no. “Emmett, what the hell are we doing here? That mattress has a piss stain!” It does—the one mattress they choose to display out front and it’s been pissed on? Come on.
“Sawyer,” her soothing tone tries to placate me, “babies need lots of really expensive things and I have a budget. Alex will never know how fancy the crib was, but I bet he or she would notice if their ear keep hurting or their belly was empty. I have a budget based specifically on priorities.”
I love her planning, her organization and sensibility. I also love her, which is why I’m not going to bellow harshly at her. “Em,” I mock her calm tone, “there is no ‘I’ in “our baby’s budget exceeds pee-soaked hand-me-downs.” Oh yeah, I threw her some air quotes.
“Do you know what diapers, formula and doctor visits cost? Or medicine? Please,” she rubs her forehead, “don’t fight me on this. Let’s go in and see what they have.” Quibbling, I get out and walk around to her door, helping her out. “I’m sure we’ll find something great, trust me.”
An older woman spots the two suckers and zones in on us right when we walk in, and now we’re stuck. “Hi, can I help you guys?”
“We’re looking for a crib, and a new mattress.” She turns and smirks at me.
“Back here.” Sanford’s…daughter leads us through too tight, cluttered aisles. “Boy or girl?” she asks.
“We don’t know. We decided to let it be a surprise!” Emmett exclaims back to her.
Oh, I’m gonna spank her butt, the little twerp, saying it like sunshine rolling off her tongue…now. Lemme tell ya something—she did not agree with me on that without a whole lot of goading. Little in life surprises me, and I wanted this one, bad. And through my powers of prowlsuasion…I won.
“Cribs are pretty neutral and with some plain bedding, you should be fine. Okay, here’s some brand new mattresses, still in the plastic. And the cribs,” she takes another right turn, “are here. Now the used models are the ones on the floor, put together. But we do have some in boxes, mostly returns or overstocks.”
“Mattress in plastic is fine,” I pipe in, “but no used or returned crib, so let’s see the overstocks.”
Emmett’s eyes bulge and she scrunches her eyebrows at me. “Be nice,” she mouths.
How was I not nice? “We have the—”
“Too high,” I comment. “Baby’d be practically in the air.”
“Okayyy, how about this one? It’s—”
“Too low. Mama’s a shorty. She’d fall over the edge on top of the baby.”
“What about—”
“What about that one?” I point. “Em, you like that one?”
“Oh, me?” She glowers at me, muttering under her breath something about her being able to make a decision. “Which one?”
“This one,” I walk over and tap my finger on the box, “the Marlowe Sleigh Crib.”
“Sawyer,” she leans into me and whispers, “it’s four hundred dollars! At a resale shop!”
“So? That seems reasonable, babe.”
“My budget for a crib is $175 max,” she clips.
“That’s when it was your budget. Now it’s our budget, which we’ve discussed. Now do you like this one or not?”
“Of course I do; it’s beautiful. But that leaves more than half for you to pay. That’s not fair, and too much.”
“Come here.” I snag her and drag her into me, surrounding that teeny frame with my own very large one. “I sold my racing bike for more than I had in it, so I have some extra cash. If you love that crib, I want to buy it for you, for Alex.”
“Why?” She tries to escape but I hold her even tighter, denying her. “You love to race.”
“I don’t love anything inanimate, and I far from love racing, but I do love you,” I dip my head and speak to her stomach, “and you. So why would I need bullshit races? They just filled a void until I found you.”
She’s speechless, and that includes insta-watery eyes, so I take charge—which started the minute we walked through the door—in case anyone was still unsure.
“We’ll take the Marlowe Sleigh and one wrapped mattress.” I smile at the saleswoman.
“Fabulous!” she says happily. “Let’s go to the front to check out. I’ll have someone bring them up.”
“Oh,” I stop short, “we’re in Mama’s car; it’s never gonna fit. Do you deliver?”
“Certainly, for a fifty dollar fee.”
“Ring ‘er up,” I say, turning my attention back to Em. “Mad?”
“No, I just think—”
I cut her off with a chaste kiss. “No’s enough.”
I feel great, like I’m really a part of things, so it really can’t be helped when I dip her in the middle of the store and kiss the breath from her. Her face is pink with embarrassment when I raise her back up.
“I love you, Emmett.”
“I love you too,” she simpers, pretending to straighten her hair back in place.
“And that crib kicks ass!” I stick out my tongue and wave “rock on” hands, not a bit fucking ashamed that my baby got the coolest pad in the land.
“MOTHERF—”
“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Emmett asks from the doorway, sneaking up behind me.
“This crib! I swear to God there’re parts missing and there’s subliminal messages in the directions. It can’t possibly be this hard.”
“Why don’t you take a break? I have to get to work and don’t want to have to worry about you blowing a blood vessel. Speci
fically,” she points, “one of those pulsing out of your forehead right now.”
“You don’t work tonight.” I should know, I make the schedule.
“I do now. Laney called me because your phone is in there on the counter and Dane couldn’t get you. Austin and Jessica have both called in sick tonight.” She grins and gives me an exaggerated wink. “Interesting development, I’d say, but that puts them way short, so I said I’d go in.”
I know Emmett, and she won’t turn down the extra money, so that means I’m going in too. Like hell my woman’s walking around a bar while I sit at home. “What time did you say we’d be there?”
“We? I didn’t volunteer you.”
“If Austin’s out, somebody’s got to run the music.
Nobody else knows how to do that.”
So that’s a little white lie. Several know how, but I don’t want her to think I’m going to “keep an eye on her.” Women tend to get all shrieky about that shit, a.k.a. I’ve seen Laney do it a hundred times.
“As soon as possible was assumed, I think, so I guess you better get ready.” She turns and hurries in the bathroom. “I need ten minutes!” she calls.
I’m ready now, so I use the time to stare, dumbfounded, at the instructions again. I refuse to ask one of the guys for help, but damn…good thing I have a while. Maybe there’s a hotline you can call, 1-888-Sure Feel Better About Putting My Baby in Here if I Used Every Screw?
“You ready?” She appears back in the doorway and I let the pamphlet fall from my hand, mouth agape with an audible groan.
“New outfit?”
She surveys herself, looking down at the two sizes too small pink shorts with a white tie at the waist and a tight white t-shirt; an outfit guaranteed to rake in the tips. “Not at all, why?”
“You’re a walking wet dream. I’d have remembered that outfit.” I’m flicking my tongue ring on the inside of my bottom teeth, trying not to go crazy on her and demand she change. Women get shrieky bout that shit too.
“I know the t-shirt’s snug, but they all are these days. And the shorts,” she tugs at the bottom of them, trying to miraculously create more material, “it gets so hot in there, you know? But I could change.”