“See, little pineapple, that’s how you resolve an argument,” I speak down to my belly. “She hears everything now, you know.”
“I’ll be sure to watch what I say, then,” he says, working to hold back a smile.
“Now, can you help me out of this chair? I still haven’t opened my package.” I hold out my hands, knowing he’ll come to my aid. He pulls me up gently, close to him, one hand sliding up from my hand to my shoulder, then down to the middle of my back, guiding me in front of him.
“Let’s get you some breakfast. Doc said to make sure and include extra fiber in your diet as constipation can be a regular side effect at this point in the pregnancy.”
“Gah!” I spin around, slapping at the arm at my back. “You will never speak of that again, at risk of being uninvited to the rest of my doctor appointments!”
I should have been beyond mortified, but his rumbling laugh that followed took the edge off my embarrassment. Stupid doctor. Not everything needed to be out in the open, Greer Graysen.
“For the record, there was never a moment that I didn’t want to be a part of this,” he tells me that night, hand to my stomach, once we’re in bed with the lights out. “I just couldn’t see then how it would work.”
“And can you see now?”
“Well, obviously.”
“Haha.” Using my words against me, this guy is hilarious.
Oh, and the package? Well, it had the cutest little baby bear t-shirt, striped leggings, and fringe moccasins ever, as well as a pregnancy announcement for Sasha and Dan. Guess I’d be returning the favor in a few months for them.
Chapter 38
Dean
Getting used to a new job after seventeen years sucked. Getting used to a new job after seventeen years while your head was stuck in a different city sucked even harder. It’s not that I disliked the position; turns out, I actually have a lot of experience to pass on to the younger generation. Yeah, I’m real fucking wise. My days were busy, challenging, consuming; I worked long hours to ensure I’d be home Thursday night. It’s the evenings that are the worst. I’m renting a room from a coworker, and all I have in it are my duffel and a stack of books; it is the pure definition of temporary. Still, I built myself a routine: work all day, go for a run, grab some food, shower, read, sleep; until Thursday, when I’d haul my ass off base and back to the Cove, to crawl into bed with my warm little Holly.
The area is nice, the beaches here are beautiful, pristine, and I was itching to surf them, but I don’t have my board here. I probably could have borrowed one, or even brought one of mine down to keep here, but that felt a little too much like moving in and these days, there’s only one place I’m interested in living.
It’s weird, how your life can change so quickly. I’d lived like a nomad for so many years, never staying in one place for too long, avoiding roots at all costs, without even realizing it. I didn’t exactly see myself ever moving home to the Cove, before Holly, but I also couldn’t see myself living anywhere else. Planning for the future, with the job that I had and the situations that job put me in, seemed too much like tempting fate. And maybe that’s why it was easier than I’d ever have thought to leave my Team. Because once I’d found Holly and she’d told me we were going to have a baby, everything just clicked into place for me. I’d been in a state of uncertainty already when I met her, and maybe that’s why I allowed myself to take her home that night, why I even left myself open to the possibility, because normally, I would not have acted that way; a one-night stand with a woman I just met, no way, not my style. But seeing her across that bar, even drunk as I was, was like finding the most obvious sign from the universe.
It took me a minute to wrap my head around it, that’s true, but even then, even when I was freaking out, I knew how our lives would end up. I just knew that my life was with Holly now, and our baby, and any other future babies she’ll let me impregnate her with-yes, I was playing the long game here. I just had to get her to see it. I’d seen the spark of understanding on her face, in her eyes, several times, but fuck if she wasn’t an expert in talking herself out of any kind of life with me. It’s alright, my dad told me long ago, when I find a good woman, I have to be patient, show her every day why she’s making the right choice in a partner.
And that thought has me pressing the button on my phone that would connect me to her.
Chapter 39
Holly
Dean’s bare chest flashed across the screen of my phone just a few minutes after his Uncle Red had left, with a request to FaceTime.
Uh, no.
Not that I’ve done a whole lot to impress him, as far as my appearance goes, tonight is an all-time low. I’d made somewhat of an attempt for Red, but as soon as he left, I took off my pants (ugh, pants), washed the little makeup I’d put on off my face, and wrapped my ca-razy hair up in a scarf. There was no way I was going to FaceTime with the always-sexy-Dean-Slade.
Once the ringing stops, I send him a text.
Don’t feel like video chatting tonight, can we just talk over the phone?
The device resting on my belly buzzes, like, twelve seconds later and my ever-growing fruit punches my insides in response.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mama,” his deep register vibrates my insides this time.
“Hi.” I curl onto my left side on the couch, pulling a fuzzy rose blanket over me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you reject my FaceTime call?”
“I am in no condition to be seen,” I answer, smiling into my pillow.
“Hmm, I doubt that.”
A silent pause.
“What are you doing? Was my uncle over tonight?”
“He was, yes. He brought me guacamole soft tacos because the thought of eating meat and/or anything fried right now makes me want to vomit. They were really yummy.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, I just have a mild to moderate case of being pregnant.”
His deep chuckle moves through me.
“What are you doing?” I always try to picture him in his setting while we talk. Sometimes, he’d call me while he was walking home, cooling off after a run, sometimes he’d call me from the room he rented (which he’d sent me a picture of, as I requested, for this very purpose).
“I just got out of the shower, now I’m sitting on my bed trying to decide what book to read next.”
“Ooh, that’s the best kind of decision to have to make.” I know it well, as my TBR list is at least three miles long. So many books, so little time…
“This hot librarian chick I know recommended some titles to me and since I’m trying to impress her, I’ve been working my way through the list.”
I giggle (giggle!), turning my face into the couch pillow. These phone calls had been getting gradually flirtier and flirtier; and while my brain doesn’t quite know where to store that information, my heart sure pitter-patters at it.
“Well, if she’s a librarian, then books are probably a good place to start at winning her over.”
What am I saying? Did I want him to win me over? Just a couple of months ago, I was telling Maya what a bad idea it would be to try and date the father of my baby (notice I no longer referred to him as my ‘baby daddy’), and now here I am, telling him I care about him, snuggling up to him every night, flirting with him.
“Oh, yeah? What else would you suggest? Help a guy out here.”
My breath catches and I bite my lip.
“Well, I would have to know her to give you advice, I think,” I say quietly, more serious.
“Okay, then, generally speaking. I’m not very good with women.”
“Ha. I doubt that.”
Another silent pause.
“I guess, just be nice to her, don’t cheat on her, abuse her, ignore her, you know, the basics.”
“Holly,” his voice goes hard, protective.
“I’m not speaking from personal experience,” I assure him.
&nb
sp; “I don’t know, those seem like pretty low standards to me, what else? What do all the guys from romance novels to do make women swoon?”
Ah, fiction. I can deal with fiction.
“Hmm, well, a good book boyfriend would complement his lady, put her first always, maybe cook her dinner, help her solve her problems, but never undermine her or doubt her abilities, he’d apologize when he behaved like an ass, treat her with care…”
Annnd, holy crap, I’d almost just perfectly described Dean Slade. He wasn’t perfect, he’d made mistakes, but he apologized for them. He’d called me hot two minutes ago, cooked me all meals and took care of my frickin’ cat. All that, and he’d brought me donuts just because. I was so dang screwed.
“Are you writing this down?” I ask, trying to mask my love epiphany.
“Word for word.”
And, another silent pause. And, really, sometimes the words that go unsaid are so much louder than those we say.
“Can I FaceTime you tomorrow? I want time with your face.”
There he goes again, making my heart whomp-whomp.
“Okay, it’s a date. I’ll try not to look like a troll.”
His huff of laughter sounds surprised.
“Okay, and I’ll do the same.”
Uh-huh, yeah, as if.
I get him to talk a bit about his day (because my days are pretty bo-ring) before we say our goodbyes. He has a bedtime now, and since I do not, I turn on the good ol’ television and fall asleep watching reruns of Parks and Rec, only to wake up in the middle of the night with a horribly full bladder, an aching back and a fur ball sleeping on my neck. I manage to shuffle my way to the bathroom and into bed, but the blankets are cold. I never noticed how cold my bed was before and that is a sad, pathetic little thought. I miss Dean. Boo.
I start having pains in my lower stomach Thursday and, luckily, already have an appointment scheduled with my doctor. She said it sounds like Braxton-Hicks contractions, which are false labor pains and harmless, but hooks me up to a machine, just to make sure. I’m glad Dean isn’t around for this one, because this whole scene would have sent him spiraling into overprotective territory, for sure. The pointless contractions continue on and off for the next week and when I return to Dr. Graysen the following Friday, this time with Dean, he is exactly how I’d thought he would be: pacing the room and huffing an annoying amount. I was tipped back on the table, a pillow behind my back, reading a magazine.
“Hey, look, they’re making a movie out of that book you just finished, one of the ones I recommended you read,” I say, flipping the magazine around to show him.
“Uh huh,” he responds, barely glancing my way. I stick my tongue out at him.
“I saw that.”
“Good, you were meant to.”
“I’m just worried,” he admits, finally taking a seat next to me, taking my hand. Aww. “You’re only 37 weeks.”
“I know you’re worried, but Braxton-Hicks contractions do not mean I’m in labor, and are totally normal.”
He switches my hand to his left one and reaches out with his right to touch my belly.
“I have to admit, I thought you’d be a little more calm about all this. Haven’t you, like, dealt with a million emergency situations?”
He shoots me a half-assed glare.
“I’m trained for a lot of situations, this is not one of them.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “It’s true, nothing can really prepare you for this, huh?”
He shakes his head, shooting me a desperate look, which makes me want to run my fingers through his hair and coddle him. Not aww. I guess my mothering instinct is really kicking in here in the home stretch.
“I’m pretty sure a man who can run efficient missions of war can handle diapers and late night feedings.”
“Efficient missions of war?” He asks, his expression switching to one of disguised mirth.
“I watched a movie last night.”
“A movie.”
“Yes. A war movie.” I may or may not have been trying to gain insight (and I know, I know, it;s just a movie, not real. I guess your judgment fails a bit when you miss someone).
“Just so you know, those movies are rarely accurate.”
“I know,” I reply with an eye roll.
His grin slides into that obnoxious, knowing one he has; the cocky, he-knows-I-missed-him-so-I-watched-a-war-movie grin.
“Ugh,” I grunt and turn away, just as Dr. Graysen enters the room.
She does the normal routine, reassures us that the Braxton-Hicks I’m feeling are normal, reminds me of what to watch out for, and even allows me a short walk on the beach with Dean.
“Yay!” I clap my hands as Dr. Graysen and Dean help me sit back up (not a delicate affair). I’m so excited at the prospect of having my feet in the sand and the sun on my face, even if it’s followed up by a blood pressure check and a nap.
We’re having dinner with Dean’s family tonight, as I’ve also been cleared to put my feet up at his parent’s house. The whole gang will be there: his parents, Red and Babe, Grace and her family.
I insist on Dean stopping at the store to get flowers; showing up empty-handed is just poor manners. He argues that it’s his mom and dad’s house and he never brings anything. I argue that it’s not my mom and dad’s house, therefore we are stopping. He brings out a lovely mixed bouquet for his parent’s and a big cookie for me.
Obviously, my heart goes a-thump-a-thump.
When we walk into his parent’s house, he pulls out two more cookies, one for Amelia and one for Liam. My heart repeats the pattern.
Hugs and greetings go all around, as we are the last of the group to arrive, then I’m promptly ushered to a comfortable chaise in the backyard. His parents have turned the space into quite the oasis with tropical plants and shrubs, a soothing fountain, and strategically placed (comfortable) seating all around the yard. The wind is blocked nicely by some trees so there’s only an occasional gentle breeze, which is nice because the air already has a slight chill to it, but in the sun, it’s perfect.
And then, this big group of family that I unintentionally snuck my way into pours out the back sliding door with presents and pink balloons. Dean is sitting next to me and looks just as surprised as the blush on my face proclaims me to be.
“I didn’t know,” he proclaims immediately, and without thinking, I latch onto his hand.
“What is this?”
“I told them you didn’t want a baby shower, I swear.”
We’re whispering hurriedly back and forth to each other before the group reaches us.
“Okay. Okay. I mean, it’s fine, it’s so nice of them.”
“Mom,” Dean starts, rising from his spot next to me, but I pull his hand to stop his next words. Even I know it would be so terribly rude to be anything but grateful for their efforts at welcoming me and this baby into their family, so I smile, at Dean, then at his family. And he returns to his seat and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
And, truthfully, I enjoy it just a little bit. I get to open presents and every package has the cutest baby stuff, then I get to eat yummy barbecue and after that, Lola slices me the biggest piece of chocolate-chocolate cake with pink icing, and it’s all perfect. I think, if I could have planned some sort of baby shower, it would be just like this celebration we’re having tonight. The only thing that would have made it better is if I had worn a nice dress and actually done my hair, rather than just French-braided it back. Oh, well.
The rush of emotion is the only way I can explain why I get all teary-eyed and turn my face into Dean’s chest when we get ready to leave. He responds by wrapping a big arm around my back and holding me close and, what do you know, that’s perfect too. Blech, I can’t even take it, cannot process all these feelings.
“Thank you so much,” I say, my eye meeting everyone’s in the room, but I don’t let go of Dean, because I’m afraid they’ll all want to hug me and, nope.
Once we’re in the safety of my car (
it’s easier for me to get in than Dean’s Jeep these days), actual tears fall and I swipe them as quick as they come before Dean gets in and sees them. Amelia presses her face to my window, her toothless grin big and silly, waving goodbye, crossing her eyes like a goof. It helps, the tears stop, and I make a goofy face right back at her and when her dad pulls her back from the car, she’s giggling.
Later, I sit in the rocking chair in our baby’s room at the house and watch while Dean sorts through the gifts and takes the tags off the new clothes, tossing them in a hamper.
“You okay?” He asks, focusing on the tiny pink onesie in his hand.
“Sure, why do you ask?”
“So you’re not still on emotional overload?” His gaze flits up to meet mine.
“No,” I insist childishly. “I mean, I was, maybe, a little, you know, towards the end of the evening, but I’m fine now. That was really nice of your family.”
“They mean well.”
“I know they do. They’re really good people.”
“I think they’re just so used to being involved in Grace’s life that they assume it’s going to be like that for us, too, you know?”
“Are you not as close to your parents as Grace?”
“Probably not, if for no other reason than I’ve been away for close to two decades.”
“Does that make you jealous?” I pick up a box containing a nightlight that projects hundreds of little stars onto the ceiling.
“No,” he answers, after a moment of thought. “Honestly, I think Grace needs that. She was like that as a kid, didn’t like sleepovers or to stay at home alone. And she’s never gone too far from the Cove, likes living with the safety net of family. I’m just different, I think I’ve always sort of done my own thing, certainly never asked my parents for permission. I guess I believed in that whole ask forgiveness, not permission way of thinking. But I think they saw that in me and they gave me that space, the ability to figure out my life, all while letting me know they were there to support me, if I needed it. They’re good parents.”
“They really are. I mean, how do they know how to be like that?” I really wanted to know. “I obviously had horrible parenting models, not counting my grandma. She was more like your parents, I guess. But I always wondered, I couldn’t help it, how her daughter, my mother, managed to be so screwed up. We never talked about it; I would never have asked her that for fear of breaking her heart, something my mother got a good start on already.”
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