“Work-related stress,” I qualify.
He drops the angle-calculator thing to the desktop. “Not to worry, we can use the—”
“Would the date of conception help?” Matt offers up suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” I offer the doc before shooting Matt a glare. “That was a little—”
“Inappropriate?” Matt’s tone is unrepentant as he adjusts one of the pleats in his pants. “I’m sure the doctor knows how babies are made.”
“Aye.” Dr. Hottie’s gaze bounces between us, filled with humor. “That I do. Theoretically and practically,” he adds under his breath as he scribbles something down on a pad. Honestly? It looks like a delaying tactic as he composes himself, as he tries not to give in to the urge to laugh. “So the date?” he manages eventually. Without looking up.
“The twenty-fifth of October. Or the twenty-sixth,” Matt adds as his gaze captures mine.
I look away as my cheeks turn nuclear.
“So you’re looking at the eighteenth of July as your due date. We’ll check that out with a scan in a bit.”
“A scan?”
“Aye. If you’d pop into the next room, Jenny will weigh you, take your blood pressure, do your bloods, and so on.”
As though summoned by his words, a nurse, Jenny, I presume, materializes in the room. “This way, my lovely,” she singsongs.
I spring from the chair and make it as far as the door before I realize Matt isn’t behind me. I turn. “Do you want to ...”
He’s on his feet before I can blink.
After having my height measured (no change) and my weight checked (very minimal change), I hop up onto a white padded bed, as instructed, to have my blood pressure taken and a little blood drawn.
“If you could lie down now,” Jenny instructs. “Then lift your top and wiggle your bottom down a bit, my love.”
I came prepared for being poked and prodded, if not scanned, maybe made to wear a paper gown? So I’m dressed in my easy-access pants, which I wriggle over my hips before lifting my shirt, all while pretending Matt isn’t in the room.
“Would you like me to wait outside?” he asks as the pale roll of tissue under my back rustles louder than thunder with each of my unintentional squirms.
“No, don’t be silly.”I’d never win an Oscar,I think as my eyes follow Jenny, who dips out of the room. “This shouldn’t feel so awkward,” I mutter. “What’s a little skin when we’ve literally had our mouths on each other’s genitals.”
“Ready?”
“Shit!” I jump as the doctor enters the room. Matt begins to cough like a man who’s swallowed his own tongue. “Sorry, I mean yes.”Did he hear me say that? If he did, I’ll just die right now. Get it over with.“All ready!”
“Need some water?” He slides the question Matt’s way.
“No.” Composing himself, he thumps his chest with the side of his fist. “But thank you.”
“Pull your shirt up a wee bit more. Perfect.” Dr. Travers tucks more of the tissue into the lowered waistband of my pants, the motion perfunctory and long practiced. “Cold squirt,” he instructs, squeezing cold lube over my stomach.
My eyes meet Matt’s again as the doc lifts a wand that’s a lot like my old Hitachi, er, massager.Yeah, let’s go with that.From the bottom of the bed, Matt’s brow quirks questioningly. Teasingly. I bite back a snicker.
The lights dip, and the wand is applied in a less fun way than my Hitachi, thank the Lord. There’s something soothing about the dimly lit room, until—
“Oh!”
“There we go,” the doctor murmurs.
An ache instantly creeps up the back of my throat, my whole being focused on thewhoosh-whoosh-whooshingand the almost ethereal image on the screen. “Oh.” I suddenly find my hand in Matt’s and look up to find him staring down at me.
“Nice and strong,” Dr. Travers murmurs from somewhere outside our bubble. Me looking at Matt, Matt looking at me, our baby’s heartbeat filling the space between us.
