“Not yet. Keep going,” Dave muttered as he snatched a clean towel and wiped his face. “She’s crowning.”
“Then what... oh my God, did I poop? You said I wouldn’t poop. Cora, you promised.”
I did no such thing. “Listen carefully, Charlotte. You need to push your daughter out into this world. Before the first month of motherhood is done, you’ll have been covered in vomit, poop, and urine. You’ll have survived on two-hour naps and an endless supply of casseroles and cookies. This right here? It’s nothing.”
“But I pooped in front of Dangerous Dave.”
Correction. She pooped all over Dangerous Dave.
“It’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen today,” Dave reassured her.
It was the funniest, though. For me anyway.
“Ready to meet your daughter?” I coaxed.
She gave me a firm nod, and a minute later, baby Stacie Marie Morris was welcomed into Dave’s arms. He did thestandard checks for a newborn, astounding me, then wrapped the crying child inside a clean towel and handed her to Charlotte to snuggle close. She didn’t even notice the poop-covered shifter or her bedroom wall that would need a redecoration. Nope, she was immediately enamored as Stacie stopped crying and they took each other in. I finished my last checks, and Dave went to scrape Mike off the floor.
I met Dave outside the picturesque cottage and drank in the sweet-scented mid-afternoon air while turning my head toward the sun. “Why are you here?” I muttered.
“I’ve been sent on a retrieval mission.”
My lips twitched. “I have work to do. People don’t stop needing doctors because said doctor decides to get married or hold a party.”
“No, but said doctor does need to be in attendance for both events.”
I grimaced and walked toward my Bugatti. Well, Sebastian’s Bugatti. Dave kept pace beside me. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“No deal. I have very specific instructions to escort you.”
I raised a brow. “It’s not like I’ll get lost, Dave.”
“But you might get distracted with a medical emergency.”
Busted.I had found three people who didn’t need my help but got it anyway. I was avoiding while being productive. Best of both worlds.
“Fine,” I snapped. “But you’re not getting in my custom Bugatti dripping shit.”
He snorted, stalked back to the cottage, grabbed a hose off the ground, and waved it at me with a smirk dancing on his lips. I sighed and followed after him, grabbed the hose, and switched on the water.
“It’s cold,” I warned.
He rolled his eyes and held out his arms. It took a good ten minutes before I was satisfied that he didn’t have a single smear of poop left on him, but now we had a different problem.
I twisted my lips to the side. “You’re wet.”
“Well, would you look at that. I took an impromptu shower with a hose and got wet.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”
“Sarcasm is thirty-eight percent of my personality.”
Mike opened the door, cradling his daughter, and handed Dave a towel without a word before closing the door in our faces.
Dave stripped out of his clothes, wrapped the towel around his waist, and climbed inside the car. I peeled out of the driveway, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I took the long route home.
“Who’d have thought the unflappable Undertaker was afraid of a little formal wear and synchronized dancing?” Dave drawled, flipping through the radio stations before settling on a current country hit.
“I’m not afraid of either. It’s the fuss beforehand that pisses me off.”
