Chapter 6
Luke
“We definitely need these.” Reaching past Hazel, I pluck a colorful set of fat plastic keys off a rack. “Two sets or one?”
Frowning, she consults the list on her phone. “Dr. Moses says we’ll need lots of freezable teethers like that.”
“You know you can say ‘my friend, Molly.’” I toss two of the key rings into our cart. “Or just Molly will work. I’m aware she’s a doctor.”
“Right.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. Just scrolls like a woman determined to perfectly execute every task on our baby-fueled shopping trip. “They could begin teething as soon as four months.”
“Remind me to watch out for fangs.”
“Like you’re the one who’d have to worry.”
I open my mouth to ask if she plans to breastfeed our babies. Then I stop because maybe that’s crossing the line.
We’ve developed a cool sort of friendship since our unfortunate meet-up at the penitentiary. Platonic co-parenting, nothing more.
To be honest, I’m just glad she’s letting me be here to help stock the nursery. I’m determined to prove I can be a good dad, which is why I insisted on driving us here to Baby Emporium in Portland.
Hazel insisted right back on paying for everything.
“I have expensive taste,” she informed me last night when I called to nail down the plan for today. “And I’m outfitting my nursery with the best of everything.”
“Gotcha.” I tried not to be bummed that we’ll have two different nurseries. We’re raising our girls in two homes, so I’d better get used to it.
And at least I can show her I’m a good sport with shopping. Pausing in front of a shelf, I point to a bright row of boxes. “Does the list say we need any—” I stop short and stare at the label. “Knee pads?”
“Yes. Knee rests and elbow rests, too.” She reaches across me to grab one of each.
“Uh, isn’t that more of a precursor to conception?”
“If somebody’s down on their knees, that’s not how conception occurs.”
I bark out a laugh. “Good point. Seriously though, what are those for?”
“Bathtime. When we reach the stage of bathing them in a regular tub, this saves our elbows and knees.”
“They think of everything, huh?” And I’m thinking again how most of these milestones will happen at Hazel’s. I’m planning to put a nursery in my own second bedroom, but who am I kidding? There’s no way it could possibly be as grand as what she can afford.
“By the way,” Hazel says, interrupting my gloomy train of thought. “Thank you for the rambutan delivery.”
“The one in your car or the one on your porch?”
“Both.” She gives me a look. “I’d still like to know how you managed to pick the lock on my Mercedes.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“And I had some explaining to do when Lucy stopped by and saw that big bag of spikey red fruit on my doorstep.”
“Whoops.” I probably should have rung the bell, but I wanted to surprise her. “She didn’t read the note, right?”
“Thankfully, no.” Hazel rolls her eyes. “The charm of your ‘for the fruit of my loins’ missive was mine alone to enjoy.”
“You’re welcome.” I stop to admire a big rack of baby pajamas. “When are you planning to tell them?”
“My cousins? I’m not sure.”
“Fair enough.” She’ll do it when she’s ready, though sooner or later, biology will force her hand. “And your mother?”
“Maybe when I visit her in a couple weeks.”
Gotta admit, it shocked the hell out of me when Hazel informed me she’d decided to visit her mom in Croatia. “We need to meet about plans for a charitable investment in Eastern Europe,” she explained with the warmth of a boulder.
“And hug your mom?” I probed.
“Right.” Nibbling her lip, she glanced away. “We don’t really do that.”
“Hug?”
“She’s never been one for physical displays of affection.” The longing in Hazel’s blue eyes said that wasn’t her choice. “But maybe that can change, now that I’m going to be a mother.”
As we move to the next aisle at Baby Emporium, I try probing gently for more. “Are you excited to see your mom?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been researching opportunities for children’s charities, and it does seem like Romania has the most opportunity.”
“Your mom’s birth country, right?”
“That’s right.” She sounds surprised I remember.
“Molly said it’s okay to fly?”
“Yes. I asked her to join me, just to be safe. We’re taking the company jet.”
“Of course you are.” I almost succeed in keeping the snark from my voice as I reach out and pluck a little white shirt off the rack. “These are cool.”
“Onesies?” Hazel cocks her head.
“Not onesies in general. This one.” I point to the loopy black script that reads, I only cry when ugly people hold me. “That’s funny.”
“That’s mean.”
“Only if you’re ugly.”
Hazel sighs as I put it back on the rack. “I don’t think it’s nice to insult people.”
“Fine. How about this one?”
Her eyes scan the front of the onesie I’m holding. “Remove baby before washing.”
“It’s funny, right?”
She nibbles her lip. “I’d hate for anyone to assume we don’t know—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I hook the onesie back on the rack. “Pretty sure most people would get the joke.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right.” She snatches it back, then tosses a second one into the cart. “Sorry. I don’t mean to shoot down all your ideas.”
“Olive,” I muse. “That’s sort of a nature name, though maybe it’s more of a cocktail garnish.”
“Luke—”
“You said ‘sorry’ twice, so I get to add another name to the list.” This is fun. “How do you feel about Pearl? That’s an old-timey name like you want.”
Hazel sighs. “I’m not a fan, though I’m open to compromise.”
“Atta girl.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Right.” I grab another onesie off the rack. “This one’s cute.”
She reads off the words on the front of it. “All my mom wanted was a backrub.” A faint hint of color graces her cheeks. “Not technically true.”
Gotta love how literal she is. “No?”
“I wanted to jump you, so I did.” She smirks when my jaw drops. “What, funny guy? You don’t corner the market on irreverent humor.”
“You’re right. I love when you unleash your inner comedienne.” I also know damn well she liked what we did in her foyer. “How’s your back, by the way?”
“Fine.” Her wince says that’s not the full truth.
“You said last night on the phone that your back’s been bothering you.”
“It’s not bad. It’s mostly just my shoulders.” Rolling them gently, she winces again. “Maybe I’ll schedule a prenatal massage.”
“No need.” Palming the delicate mounds of her shoulders, I spin her around. Before she can protest, I’m digging my thumbs into the bunched muscles at the base of her neck. “How’s that pressure?”
“Oh, God.” Groaning, she melts in my hands. “Right there.”
“More?”
“Yes.” She’s a glorious puddle under my touch. “That feels amazing.”
“How about this?” Squeezing her biceps, I ripple my fingertips over the tops of her shoulders. “You’re kinda tense right here.”
“How are you so good at this?”
“Magical hands, baby.”
The groan she unleashes spurs smiles from a couple nearby. “Don’t call me baby.”
“Right.”
“Don’t stop.” She sounds breathy and wild and I love it. “I might be a little touch starved.”
“You don’t say.” I’m not familiar with the term, but I can figure it out from context. It’s not hard to tell Hazel Spencer craves physical contact. “You’re really tight right through here.”
She moans as my thumbs knead the knots in her shoulders. “Harder, please.”
“This okay?”
Another soft groan slips from her lips. “Sweet baby Jesus, you’re good.”
“I know.” I love how she’s gripping her cart with white knuckles. She’s putty in my hands, and I swear I could do this all day.
“We should stop.” She’s panting, but doesn’t move back. “In just a second.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sw—”
“Can I help you two find something?” The clerk’s chipper voice breaks Hazel’s trance.
We spring apart like teenagers caught with their hands down each other’s pants. Tugging her shirt into place, Hazel looks flushed and disheveled. “No, thank you. We’re just—um—”
“Relieving some pregnancy tension,” I offer.
“Right.” Hazel’s blue eyes are blissed out and guilty.
The clerk looks between us and offers a stiff little smile. “Understandable. Just try to keep it down. There are other customers trying to enjoy their experience at Baby Emporium.”
“Of course,” Hazel says. “I’m sorry.”
I wait for the clerk to vanish. “The other customers are just jealous they’re not enjoying their Baby Emporium experience like you are.”
“Nobody should enjoy a Baby Emporium experience that much,” she hisses. “It should be criminal.”
Flexing my fingers, I catch her sharp intake of breath. “In that case,” I tell her, “you’re with the right guy.”
Smoothing her hair back, Hazel huffs. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Must be the pregnancy hormones.”
“Celeste,” I offer. “Wait, no—Aurora. I like that one better if we’re going with something tied to the cosmos.”
“Dammit,” she mutters. “I never realized how much I say ‘sorry’ until you started doing that.”
“Well now you know.” Part of me hopes she won’t stop right away. I’ve come up with some great names lately.
Gripping the cart, Hazel continues to the next aisle. With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, she throws in a set of baby bath towels and three different kinds of shampoo.
“Don’t people buy you this stuff at a shower?”
Hazel looks horrified. “I’d never ask people to buy me things.”
“I don’t think you ask. I think friends and family just throw you one.”
“I couldn’t accept. It’s appalling to think the people I love would feel pressured to spend money on me.”
“Some people make gifts by hand. It’s not about spending tons of money.”
“Homemade gifts take time and energy.”
I recall her dad’s words that day at the prison.
You know my Hazel—always so sure she can do everything all by herself.
Is that at the root of this?
“It’s not a burden to people who love you,” I point out. “Has it ever occurred to you that people might want to help?”
She swivels her ocean-blue gaze to meet mine. It’s clear from her face that this never dawned on her. “I still don’t think it’s appropriate.”