“I’ll be there.” Without a second of hesitation, I jogged to my room to take off my PJs. “And I’ve got the playlist and the essential oils.”
“Thank you,” he said while Ruby moaned in the background.
I tugged on a pair of sweats, tossed my laptop into a tote bag, then collected the clean pieces of my breast pump from the kitchen.
When I approached the tent, the flap was open, and Jasper was splayed out on top of his sleeping bag, shirtless, reading a book.
My stomach clenched at the sight. Shit, that was hot. And why wasn’t he ever wearing a shirt? It wasn’t that warm out.
“Ruby,” I huffed, tossing him the baby monitor. “It’s time.”
He hopped up in one smooth movement, his expression calm. “Okay, I got Vincent. Is there milk in the freezer?”
I nodded. “And I packed my pump. When do you have to be at work?”
“Tomorrow night.”
He stepped in close and kissed my cheek, his lips warm in the cool night air. “Proud of you.”
As I drove to the hospital, I replayed that moment over and over, then found myself examining the ease with which we communicated and the affection he so openly gave me.
It wasn’t passionate. It was a friendly, fond kiss. Nothing like what had happened a few nights ago.
We were friends.
Nothing more. The kiss had just happened. Exactly like he said it would.
That bastard had worn me down and earned my trust.
So why did I hate how it felt?
“About fucking time,”Ruby roared when I walked into the hospital room. “Five more minutes, and I was going to name this kid after you out of spite. Paul’s been playing that hippie shit.”
Paul gave me a sheepish look, his body sagging with exhaustion.
“I’m only four centimeters,” she raged, standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a hospital gown. “Four fucking centimeters. That’s like a thumbnail. How the hell am I getting this watermelon out?”
With a deep breath in, I slapped on a calm mask and stepped up beside her, squeezing her hand. “Ruby Stone, look at me.”
She obeyed, her hair sticking to her face.
“You are a warrior woman,” I reminded her. “This is primitive shit. Your ancestors used to squat in fields and give birth. You will do this and it will be fucking magical.”
“It hurts so fucking bad,” she growled. “Why did the book say intense period cramps? This is more like I’m being ripped apart from the inside by a rabid raccoon with a grudge.”
“Just breathe, babe,” Paul said from across the room.
With faster movements than should be possible, Ruby picked up the large rubber birthing ball at her side and chucked it at him. “You tell me to just breathe again and I’ll make sure you never draw another breath.”
Paul, to his credit, took it like a champ, only smiling lovingly at his wife. “You’re doing so great.”
When she looked back at me, her anger had been replaced with fear. The look brought me back to Vincent’s birth, when our roles were reversed.
“Let’s get the playlist going and get fucking focused,” I said. “This is the hard part, but you’re a bad bitch. You do not quit.”
Once I’d connected to her Bluetooth speaker, I cued up the Swedish death metal she had requested.
As a nurse scurried in, wearing a confused frown, Ruby yelled, “Track three. The one with the screaming. It helps me focus.”
