Linx nodded and reached for the door. “She’ll be out in a minute. Nice hat.”
The door closed, and Bax stood there like a teenager waiting for the girl he was taking to prom. A guy full of pent-up energy and hope. So he paced beside the Range Rover. Three long steps to the tailgate, three long steps to the hood. Repeat. And again.
He had that feeling in his gut like he did before going onstage at a massive venue. Like he was jonesing for what came next and having a hard time keeping that type of energy pent-up.
Because today he would get to see the little dude or dudette on the ultrasound. Maybe there’d be multiple dudes or dudettes. He wasn’t saying his sperm was superhuman, but he was confident that he wasn’t a slouch in that department.
Courtney needed to get out here because left alone with his own thoughts and Linx’s ultimatums was not a great place to be.
“Should I knock again?” he asked the driver he’d hired as part of his security detail in Denver.
Chet, also known as Driver Dude, leaned against the hood and shook his head. Chet didn’t say much, but he had to have caught most of what went down with Linx.
“You sure?” Bax asked, again with the pacing. “You think it’s weird that Linx didn’t ask me in?” Bax paused his pacing. “I mean, what does that say?”
“Says he didn’t invite you in,” Chet responded.
Right.
Bax would do his part to save Dimefront, fix his relationship with Linx, and show Courtney that they could be more than a team. What that meant at the moment was staying the fuck away from Linx so he could deal with his anger, and not push Courtney so she could realize he wasn’t a total selfish asshat.
“Not my call what’s weird or not weird,” Chet said, all Chet-like. “I’m just here to take the bullet and drive the car.”
Well, wasn’t that frightening? Chet had the look of a guy who’d been in more than a few street fights. Crooked nose, scars along the temple, lots of muscles. The kind of guy who made a good security detail because everyone was a little scared of him, including Bax.
“I mean, she invited me to this appointment. That means something,” Bax rambled as he resumed his pacing. “We used to be friends, you know? Back in the neighborhood where we grew up. Used to talk for over ten minutes without arguing about something that doesn’t really matter in the long term.”
Now, he was ready to put aside his arguments for the sake of the kiddo and their future.
Then the front door opened, and Courtney stepped out, sucking the air right from his lungs. She was… wow.
“Hey,” she said, giving him a once-over that was most definitely a little awkward. Stilted. LikeEw, who are you?OrEw, so this is what I got myself into.
Also… where did he miss the memo that this was a dress-up gig? He should’ve worn something other than jeans, a black tee, and a novelty hat he’d bought that read, “Call Me Daddy.” This seemed appropriate for the meet-the-kid appointment.
But here he was dressed like usual while Courtney wore a knee-length yellow dress with floaty sleeves. She’d pulled her hair up into a heap of a bun that must’ve taken a helluva lot of time to get it to appear so perfectly messy.
She started down the stairs.
Should he offer to hug her? Should he help her down the stairs? That’d be the nice thing to do. But Courtney probably didn’t want his help.
What the hell did a guy do in this situation?
Apparently, nothing, because that was what he did.
Chet, meanwhile, opened the back door of the vehicle for them. At least he had something to do withhishands.
“Thanks for the ride,” Courtney said, slipping into the car.
This she said to Chet.
Chet didn’t reply, as was his way.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Bax said, because he knew well enough that she didn’t have to.
Yet ever since he’d said he wanted to be involved, she’d been nothing but accommodating. Inviting him to her doctor’s appointment? Check. Texting him when she felt the baby move for the first time? Check. Texting him to tell him that apparently it was just gas? Also, check.
He felt very… unable to reciprocate. Which also led to this pent-up, pacing-the-floor energy inside him.
