Keeps growing no matter what
Reid
Carina shifts in the passenger seat, one hand resting low on her belly. Her fingertips press lightly, like she’s tracking something only she can feel.
“That a kick?”
She doesn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Or indigestion. Take your pick.”
I huff, turning onto the road that leads to Harry’s street. The wind carries the scent of cut grass and sun-warmed stone through the open window. We’re still a few minutes out, enough time for the nerves to kick in, if they’re going to. I keep my hands on the wheel.
Carina hasn’t said she’s nervous, but I know her now. I know the subtle tells. The way her foot taps lightly, the way she pulls her sleeve down over her wrist, then smooths it back up again.
She’s nervous.
“Almost there,” I say, more for me than her.
There’s no answer, but her hand moves to rest palm-down on my thigh, fingertips brushing a rhythm like she’s counting something invisible. Maybe she is. I don’t mind. I like the quiet. And I like watching her—especially now, when I glance over, and she’s watching the trees roll past.
She’s got one leg tucked up, her green oversized cardigan bunched at her hips. Hair clipped back and smelling like my shampoo. Bergamot and warm skin and the cream she uses on her calves when they cramp at night.
“You’re staring,” she says, eyes still out the window.
“You’re twitching,” I counter, nodding toward her stomach. “That’s new. Being able to see it.”
She huffs a breath. “You just miss it most of the time because you’re asleep.”
“Correction: I miss it because you like to wake up at five in the morning even when you’re not on shift.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look over. “I had to reorganize my linen closet. The pillowcases were in the fitted sheet section.”
“Tragic.”
She pinches my thigh, just enough to make me flinch. I grab her hand and don’t let go.
We fall back into silence, but her fingers stay curled in mine, and the baby keeps kicking—rhythmic, almost like it’s part of the conversation. I slide a glance her way.
“Nervous?”
“A little,” she admits, and I don’t miss the way her voice softens around it. “You sure he’s up for visitors?”
I nod. “He’s been asking.”
“About me?”
“Yeah, about why the hell I haven’t brought you around yet.”
“And what’d you say?”
I shrug. “Told him you were busy saving lives and keeping pro athletes from sabotaging their own stitches.”
That earns me a full laugh. It curls in my chest and settles behind my ribs, and I tighten my grip on the wheel, the other tightening around her hand.
“I told him last week,” I admit. “After I’d asked you.”
She glances over.
“That you’d be coming with me to meet him,” I clarify. “He lit up. Hasn’t stopped reminding me since.”
