I shake my head.
“If she is a girl, what if she’s nothing like me? What if she hates pink?”
“Or what if it’s a boy and he hates blue?” Travis adds.
“See?” I thrust my hand out. “You get it. Besides, who said blue and pink have to be gender exclusive anyway?”
“Like if we have a son and his favorite color is pink?”
I cock my head to the side. “Would you have a problem with that?”
He jerks his head back, surprised by the question. “A problem? I mean, if he tries to match pink with, say, bright orange, we’ll have to have a serious discussion about taste.”
I snicker.
“Then I’ll have to send him to my cousin Andreas’ wife who’s a costume designer so she can get his fashion sense together. No way in hell I can have a kid that clashes like that.”
“Whew.” I blow out a breath and wipe my forehead. “Thank goodness I’m having a baby with a guy who worries about the important things.”
“See?” He points at me. “To think, you could’ve missed that elevator in Vegas and then where would you be?”
Stuck in New York instead of here with you.
The thought passes through my mind so quickly that I almost miss it. What I don’t miss is the way my heart strains at the idea.
“Let me guess,” Travis continues, “your favorite color is blue?” He punctuates the question with a lifted eyebrow.
“Ha! No,” I reply. “I just find it absurd that with so many colors in the world we automatically designate blue for boys and pink for girls. I mean, what about teal?”
“That’s a good color,” he affirms.
“Right?”
“Then teal is your favorite color?”
“It’s so beautiful,” I say in reverie.
Travis’ sideways grin as he squeezes my hand has a flipping in my belly happening that has nothing to do with the pregnancy.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
He peers over his shoulder before answering. “We’re getting left behind.” He pulls me along the corridor to catch up with the rest of our group.
“Excuse me!” someone yells out in French and then in accented English.
The sharpness in their voice speaks of the emergency and all I see out of the corner of my eye is a flurry of white.
That’s before something bands around my waist, pulling me out of the way.
When I blink my eyes open, it’s to Travis with his front body pressed against mine, my back against the door of an empty maternity room. Travis sticks his head out into the hallway, watching as a couple more healthcare workers race down the corridor.
“Looks serious," he mumbles. “Hope everyone’s okay.”
The softness in his voice is almost more than my heart can bear. How is this man equal parts sexy and soft and caring? Perhaps it's the latter that makes the former possible.
“Are you okay?” He looks at me, his arm still wrapped around my waist. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks while his eyes do a scan of my face.
“No.” My voice is a whisper. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
