This isourbaby.
I will go to the ends of the earth to protect this baby.
The guys might’ve seen the ultrasound images first, but I’m the guy who falls asleep with my hand on her subtle baby bump every night. I’m the one watching her belly swell and grow and measuring it by how much of my hand covers the baby. I’m the one who caught her looking at a baby name website last night.
And I’m the one she’s smiling at as she sniffs the red wine substitute, swirls the glass, holding it up to the light, and then sniffs it again.
I brace myself.
I’m not a wine guy. I have no idea if it’s awful. I don’tknow if it’s doing the thing it’s supposed to do when it gets swirled.
I don’t even know why people swirl wine. Something to do with air. That’s all I’ve got.
She takes a sip and her brows furrow.
“Is it awful?”
“No.” She frowns at it, swirls it again, and sips once more. “It’s surprisingly good, actually. Not that I doubted you. I don’t mean that. I mean?—”
“I doubted me.”
That smile lights up her eyes. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
I’m limping slightly in the boot as I carry our plates across the kitchen to the table.
She leans over, peering out the window. “Tell me you have a picture of the dog.”
“I have many, many pictures of the dog.”
“In the pool?”
“Endless pictures of the dog in the pool, because I knew you’d want to see them.”
“You are the best.”
“Not even close.”
She smiles at me as I take my seat. “Agree to disagree. Want to see the baby?”
“It’s all I’ve wanted all day.”
She pulls out her phone and opens an album, and soon I’m flipping through black-and-white images as she digs into her potato.
“Oh my god, this is so good,” she says.
I lift my gaze from a blurry black-and-white image to eye her.
“Itis,” she says.
“Okay, chef.”
Her foot slides along my calf. “It’s far easier for you to make a good meal than it would be for me to be impressive on the rugby pitch.”
“You’re not allowed anywhere near a rugby pitch.”
She grins. “What about in the stands?”
“Only if I get to pick your seats. Ball sometimes goes up there. Don’t want you or Tater Tot getting hurt.” I look down at the image again. “Is that a leg?”
