by Jay Hogan
“I know, I know,” she said. “But she’s been settled so far, right? The boys were great even though they were early, and she will be too. Plus, who knows? She might even have the decency to go the whole way.”
I gently patted her popping belly. “You hear that, munchkin? First life lesson, listen to your mother.” I loosened Prim’s shirt where it was straining around her belly and got to my feet, offering her a hand off the couch. She grabbed it with relief, and I hauled her up, wincing with a belly cramp before I could stop myself. I’d probably pushed the envelope a little at lunch with the second yoghurt but I was fucking starving. I’d eaten three scrapes of nothing over the weekend.
“Oops. I saw that, mister. Bathroom break?”
I nodded. “Two ticks.”
“And the rest. Don’t hurry.”
She knew me too well. I headed down the hallway while Prim made for her kitchen.
“I got some of that fake coffee shit you like,” she called out. “Nocaf, right? I don’t know how you drink that crap, but I’ll brew you a cup while you deal.”
“You’re an awesome human being.” I was upfront with all my clients about my Crohn’s disease before they signed on, and most were amazingly supportive and understanding. It wasn’t like I had a choice about keeping it private, though, not when I needed to disappear to a bathroom on a regular basis, for indeterminate lengths of time. That included during labour, although I was obsessive about preemptive timing and watching my intake. Plus I always had the cover of another midwife in case my Crohn’s was particularly active and I had to bail, but as yet I hadn’t needed to use it and had never missed a delivery, though I had needed to juggle appointments at times.
As one of only a half-dozen male midwives in the country, adding a chronic condition to the mix had always concerned my teachers, but I’d proved everyone wrong, including myself. I loved the job. It had its stresses, of course—miscarriages happened, and I’d had my share of clients go through that sad experience; unexpected problems could derail a delivery plan; and pregnant women dealt with grief, depression, addiction, family violence, and a whole number of other emotions and health issues—but on the whole, it was an uplifting and hopeful profession and I counted myself lucky.
It had taken a fair bit of courage to venture into private practice two years ago, but it had been worth it. Having control of my own daily schedule and workload was a massive advantage in dealing with my disease. I didn’t carry the client load some midwives did, which admittedly limited my income some, but it also kept my stress levels manageable and allowed me to work around whatever the current state of my disease happened to be.
Being in partnership with two other midwives also meant I had backup when my body occasionally threw in the towel. Thankfully that had only happened once since we’d set up our clinic, and then only briefly. Diagnosed at seventeen, I’d been lucky enough to avoid surgery and to have suffered only two major flare-ups since, both of which landed me in hospital followed by months of painful recovery, but neither of them in the last two years.
Not that I didn’t have to deal with the disease on a daily basis regardless, and minor exacerbations lasting up to a week were common, but I could mostly work through them as long as I stuck to my regime and was flexible with my appointment schedule. A strict diet that avoided my trigger foods, no caffeine, no alcohol, suitable exercise, counteracting weight loss, dealing with meds and their side effects, pain, and coping with the profound impact on my sexuality didn’t make for pretty reading. But it was a million times better than a flare-up, and adaptable clients like Prim were a godsend.
Back in the cosy lounge stuffed full of comfortable soft grey couches, the largest wooden coffee table in the world, and every Lego kit known to humankind stacked alphabetically along one wall, I took a seat and finished up my notes on my laptop. “What’s Kevin’s schedule like around the due date?” I called out to Prim in the kitchen as I typed. Prim’s husband worked on contract in Indonesia on a month-on-month-off basis. Her hesitation told me all I needed to know.
“He’s working hard on a swap to make sure he gets back beforehand,” she replied. “It’ll mean screwing with the roster, and there’s some festival on at the same time, which isn’t helping, but he thinks he can swing it. We won’t know till closer to the time, though.”
Damn. “Okay. So, same drill as last time, then?”
“Yeah. My sister’s packed and ready to come if I need her and I’ve got you on speed dial, right? Damn.” Something hit the tiles in the kitchen and smashed loudly.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just the milk jug. Jonas is on it. Won’t even have to wipe the floor.”
I laughed. “And we’re still going for a hospital birth, right? Safest option, seeing as how your others came early. And it means we won’t need to organise too much if Kevin doesn’t make it.”
Prim arrived back in the lounge with two mugs and handed me one. “Yeah. Not that I don’t trust you—”
“Stop right there. I’m your LMC, girl. Your lead maternity carer, with the emphasis on the carer bit. And I’m with you one hundred percent on this one. With your tendency to go into early labour, deciding on a hospital delivery at this point makes sense. It keeps the stress levels down on your end, especially with the unknown of Kevin’s work schedules.”
She sat and curled one leg under her hip with some difficulty. “I know and thanks.” Jonah appeared from the kitchen, wearing a white moustache, and tucked himself into a ball at her feet.
I grinned. “My pleasure. Got a name sorted? Last week you were stalemated between Poppy and Hannah.”
She laughed. “Hannah for sure. Poppy and Primrose? Just couldn’t do it in the end.”
I shook my head in amusement. Thank God. I closed my notes and took a long pull on my coffee. Prim was right. Nocaf tasted like crap, but it beat the shit out of regular coffee, or tea for that matter, which although I loved the taste of, tended to ensure I spent more time than usual in the smallest room in the house, something I could well do without.
“Boys all good?” I asked.
A smile lit up her eyes. “Bundles of mischief but that’s boys for you. Stuart’s loving his first month at school, and Robby’s raising hell at kindergarten, so all’s well in their world.” She eyed me with concern. “How about you?”
Damn. I did my best to keep my bad days from leaking onto my clients; they had enough going on after all. But the truth was, pregnant women were harder to fool than most, and I was convinced the hormones were to blame. They created some kind of spooky shortcut to telepathic sensitivity. Didn’t mean I was about to lay any of my own issues on them.
I nodded, packing away my laptop so I didn’t have to lie to her face. “Fine. Busy weekend, is all.”
She reached out with her free foot and nudged mine. “Well, I personally thought your arrest video captured your best side.”
I snorted. “Oh you did, did you? Glad to hear it. Not sure the rest of my clientele will be quite so understanding.”
“Oh, come on.” She grinned widely. “Anyone who knows you will be laughing their arses off. And nothing came of it anyway, right?”
I nodded. “Right. The cop was just being a total dick. Once I explained my bathroom fetish, they couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”
Prim chuckled. “I bet. Still, that detective was kinda cute. Wouldn’t be too much of a hardship being cuffed by him.”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t the first to make that point. My best friend, Aaron, had called within minutes of my release to ask: one, if the video was real; two, if I was open to a threesome with the hunky officer; and three, if the arrest wasn’t real, then why hadn’t I told him of this particular kink before?
I’d responded that the detective was gay but a jerk. Aaron then asked if that meant he could tap that? The sick roll of my stomach at the very thought had surprised even me, and my silence hadn’t gone unnoticed by Aaron, who chuckled into the phone. The man was too insightful f
or his own good. Fucker.
Prim held up her hands. “I just call ’em how I see ’em.”
“Yeah, well, just keep talking that way, sweetheart, and I might have to conveniently forget to pack all that yummy pain relief you’re gonna need on the day.”
She gasped theatrically. “You wouldn’t.”
I squeezed her hand. “No, I wouldn’t.” I delivered our empty cups to the kitchen and gathered my bag. “I’ll see you next Monday, gorgeous, hopefully not sooner. Take it easy and keep your phone close.”
Prim saluted me from her couch as I left.
IN THE car I took a minute to gather my thoughts and swallow down a couple of pain pills before heading back to the clinic. Having just started to recover from the previous months of Crohn’s niggles, I’d relapsed for a couple of days after the whole Saturday protest arrest debacle. It made no difference how blasé and relaxed I could fake on the outside, you can’t hide that kind of stress from your body. It saw straight through all that “take it in your stride” shit, and I’d spent most of the Sunday bent over double in the bathroom, terrified I was in for a major setback, maybe even hospital time.
It started before I’d even gotten home, requiring a detour into my local service station for a restroom break. The guy behind the counter knew me well—I was there often enough for the same reason, not even bothering to hide the fact with a fuel purchase half the time. He just waved a hand as I passed and threw me the newspaper. I made a mental note to drop him a thank-you gift of some description. Some places were real dicks about it.
By the time I made it in my front door, I was pulling off my clothes and reaching for my baggiest sweats and all my drugs. Sometimes the pain involved simple cramping that retreated once the bathroom stuff was sorted. Other times the cramping continued regardless of how long I spent on the toilet, what I ate or drank, or what meds I shoved down my throat. This seemed more often the case if it was stress-induced. It could be accompanied by a vicious stabbing pain or ache around the middle of my belly, and if there was active bowel ulceration, that motherfucker rocketed stratospherically. They say abdominal injury is one of the most painful ways to die—well, some days living with the fucker is a damn sight worse. This weekend’s example had lain somewhere in the middle.
It had been the last damn thing I’d needed, and I’d thrown everything I had at that motherfucker for forty-eight hours to try to head it off. My mum offered to come look after me so I could get some rest, but that felt like giving in too early, and I was damned if I’d do that. My Crohn’s and I had an unspoken agreement. It tried to screw with my life, and I fought it tooth and nail every chance I got. I was winning… mostly.
Bringing out the big guns, I shut the door on my life for two days and persevered with a bland liquid diet, took all my meds, raided all my natural remedies, did my meditation, got my aromatherapy going, and watched as many happy movies as I could to get the endorphins pumping, and… thank Christ it worked. This time. I wasn’t 100 percent yet, but I was getting there. The problem, as always, was that I had no idea if it would last, and to say I was still pissed off was putting it mildly.
Not one to forgive and forget easily, I stewed about it all the way back to the clinic. Detective Caleb Ashton might not have meant to put me in that position, but it was hard not to lay the blame at his size twelve feet. So, when I saw him leaning on his car as I pulled into the clinic car park, I was beyond irritated. Fuck. What the hell was he doing here? I really wasn’t in the mood for any more of his crap, and seriously considered simply reversing and hightailing it out of there, but before I could do just that, he was knocking on my driver’s window. Shit.
Call me spiteful, but instead of lowering the window, I opened the door, catching his shin. “Oops.” I glanced up innocently. “Didn’t realise you were standing that close.”
His expression let me know he saw straight through the lie, but instead of getting angry, those gorgeous hazel eyes sparked with humour, his lips creased up in a sexy smile, and my dick immediately perked up and took notice. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Come to harass me at my place of work now, officer?”
He took the door and held it open. “Guess I deserved that. After you.” He waved his arm.
My gaze narrowed as I considered my options, which admittedly weren’t many: accept his gentlemanly behaviour or look like a precious dick. I slid out from behind the wheel, stood, and faced him. “So, what have I done this time, detective? Double flushed under water restrictions? Or maybe used more than four pieces of toilet paper at a time? I’m sure there’s a category four crime in there somewhere.”
He laughed. “Are you done?”
I crossed my arms and pinned him with a glare. “What do you think?”
His cocky attitude dissolved, and he at least had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “Okay, I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you and been more receptive about your explanation, but can we just talk for a minute, please?”
I said nothing, just stood there.
He stared at me. “Maybe inside?”
I sighed and dropped my arms. “Fine. You get one minute.” I reached into the back seat and grabbed my midwifery bag. “Here.” I handed it off to him without a glance. “Make yourself useful.” I took the rest of my gear and headed into the clinic, trying not to catch the eye of my two colleagues, whose faces were plastered to the window, watching the whole thing unfold. As I entered, they scarpered to their individual offices like cockroaches. I’d deal with them later.
Caleb followed me into my office, and I was keenly aware of his curious gaze taking in his surroundings. I’d worked hard to make it a comfortable space for my clients, choosing soft greys and peach tones, calming ocean and forest prints for the walls, a toybox for young children, and a variety of pillows in all shapes and sizes to satisfy the aching backs of pregnant women.
Aside from the usual examination table, basin, desk, and equipment storage, each of our offices had a comfortable couch and armchair, neither of which I invited Caleb to sit in. Instead I held my hand out and nodded at the bag he still carried.
He glanced down. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He handed it over, and I removed what I needed to sterilise, then deposited the bag under my desk.
He walked over and studied my framed degree hanging beside the door. “So, you’re a—”
“Midwife, yes. But you knew that already, from my business card. Remember? The one I gave you before you arrested me? I’m guessing that’s how you found me. And before you ask what every other uneducated person inevitably does, the term technically means with-woman, meaning the person who is with the woman giving birth, who assists. It doesn’t have to be another woman, though it almost unquestionably was, way back when.” Caleb reddened and I almost regretted my sarcastic tone… almost.
“Oh, I um, didn’t know that,” he said. “Well, good for you. That’s kind of… cool, actually.”
Huh. Cool? Not what I’d expected. Didn’t make the man any less of a dick. “You wanted to talk?” I reminded him, arms folded across my chest, still standing.
He bit back a smile, and my gaze absolutely did not flick down to that teeth-on-lip action, not for one second.
He sighed and indicated the couch. “Can we at least sit? If I’m going to eat humble pie, I’d prefer to sit while doing it.”
Polite, gorgeous, and apologetic. Total bastard. I waved my hand at the couch as if I couldn’t give a flying…. “Whatever.”
He leapt at the invitation as if it might be reversed at any minute, settling in the couch with an arm along its back, legs extended, ankles crossed, and all in all managing to look more relaxed in my own office than I did. It had been a long time since I’d had anyone I’d been this attracted to in my private space, work or home, and it was doing squiggly things to my insides, things that were better left unexamined. I grabbed a perch in the more upright armchair, looking, I’m sure, like a seagull eyeing an unattended picnic. I rea
lly needed to calm the fuck down.
For a few seconds nothing was said, and then finally Caleb shifted awkwardly in his seat, the movement drawing his shirt tight and revealing a peek of brown chest hair above the open top button. I lingered a fraction too long on that little morsel of temptation, and when I looked up… yeah, busted. Shit. His face broke into a wide grin, which only served to pop that damned beauty spot… again. I’m sure it was a melanoma risk and needed to be removed, and I considered telling him so. Yeah, so not gonna happen.
I scowled and crossed my legs. “Your minute’s nearly up.” That put a frown on his face. Damn right.
“I didn’t realise I was actually on the clock,” he joked.
I looked at my watch.
He threw up his hands. “Okay, not joking, apparently. I said I was sorry—”
“More than once. And you’ve wasted your time if you came all this way just to repeat it. You’ve apologised. I said whatever. We all move on.”
He threw me a level stare. “Are you done? Can I speak now?”
My olive skin ordinarily did a good job of hiding any blushes and I hoped this time was no exception. I was being a dick but since when did that ever stop me? I waved my hand as if I didn’t give a shit. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
I waited, but he said nothing more, just continued to stare at me while chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he sighed and got to his feet.
“No, you know what, you’re right. I shouldn’t have come. We said all we needed to on Saturday, and you’ve made your feelings and… lack of interest, perfectly clear on both occasions. I just wanted to give the coffee thing one more try… which isn’t like me, just so you know. But with a gorgeous guy, smart and funny like you, it seemed a shame to let that opportunity go without a fight, especially in this town, right? But I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea. I’ll leave you to it.” He stood and extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”
