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She smiled over his solicitous concern. “You do realize I carry that same tote up the stairs at the office every day.”
“I know you don’t take the elevator.” He cast a sidelong look at her. “Humor me.”
“The elevator makes him drop when it stops.” She laughed. “It’s weirdly uncomfortable.”
“I bet.” He tugged the passenger door open and offered a hand. She curled her fingers around his, using the leverage to settle herself in the seat. He leaned in to kiss her before closing the door and striding to the driver’s side.
She rubbed the side of her stomach under another hard kick combined with a contraction. He quirked a brow before turning down the driveway.
“You all right?”
“Braxton-Hicks, ever since this morning.”
“Should I be sorry?” He slowed at the end of the drive.
For a moment, she considered whether she should feed his arrogance or not, then sighed. He knew what effect he had on her. “No. It was worth it.”
His dimples slashed with a wholly satisfied grin, and she shook her head.
At the house, she gave in to his go rest, curling up on the couch in the study, lights from his artificial tree a soft glow in the dim room. On a sigh, she relaxed into a doze.
“Hey.” An easy hand threading through her hair woke her, Tick’s weight on the sofa at her hip.
Eyes closed, she smiled under the gentle touch. They were so much more themselves now — he was fully himself again — and she soaked in the soft joy of this moment. “Hi.”
“Are you hungry?”
She blinked at the near-dark in the room. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven.” He continued running his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp and nape.
With a quiet groan, she covered her eyes. “Why did you let me sleep this long?”
“I don’t know . . . you’re very pregnant and don’t sleep well at night, maybe?”
“Don’t be a jackass.” She nudged his ribs, then lodged a solid push into his side. “Let me up.”
He unfolded and proffered a hand so she could pull herself up. Her whole belly tightened with the change in position, and she paused, catching her breath.
“Mama sent tons of leftovers if you want to just graze or I can fix us something.”
“Tick, your son is pressing on my bladder.” If anything, her back hurt worse after three hours asleep on the couch, and her abdominal muscles didn’t want to relax. “I have to take care of that before I can think about food.”
“Got it.” Humor lurked in his voice, and she smothered a wave of irritation. Leaving him in the kitchen, she went through to their en suite. Emptying her bladder brought some relief, but her abdomen tightened once more as she washed her hands. This time, the tension burned sideways and upwards, traveling from low in her belly, and the intensity took her breath.
With an effort, she assumed a slow in-and-out breathing, the pattern she’d learned long ago, alone in a birthing class before Eleanor’s birth, and which she’d told Tick resembled the way she’d breathed through him at the beginning of their relationship.
The tension eased, and she pushed away from the sink. In the kitchen, Tick leaned on the island, munching cheese straws and reading on his phone. He glanced up at her. “Better?”
“You should make a sandwich or something.” She perched on the stool across from him. “I might be in labor.”
He laid the phone down. “What?”
She pointed toward the master suite. “That contraction did not feel—”
The tension waved across her abdomen again, and he moved, spreading his hand on her lower belly, gaze on his watch. Once the tightness eased, he met her gaze, his lips parted and his eyes stunned. “Holy hell. That was the real thing.”
Humor tugged at the corners of her lips, even with anxiety prodding her. “You think?”
