by Moss, Brooke
I shook my head. “Not really. Although I ate a tic tac yesterday, and I don’t think that came back up.” I looked at the now clean water in the toilet wearily. “Though it may have just now.”
Again he laughed, then put his finger under my chin to raise it. Fletcher’s bright, aqua blue eyes searched mine for a few beats. “Your pulse seems all right, and your pupils aren’t dilated. I think you’re going to be fine.”
“Great.” Using another piece of toilet paper, I wiped the back of my neck off. “How long does this morning sickness last? And why do they call it morning sickness? Shouldn’t it be called ‘all damn day’ sickness?”
When he smiled, it showed a row of bright, white teeth. They were nearly perfect, with the exception of one of his canines, which was just slightly out of alignment. It was the most endearing flaw I’d ever seen. I was surprised at how squirmy he made me feel, considering I’d just finished puking my guts out.
“A lot of women get morning sickness all day long. The good news is, it should subside around twelve to fourteen weeks,” he said. “My ex wife got so mad at me when her morning sickness kicked in. She said it was a cruel joke from God.”
Ex wife? My ears perked up and I sat up straighter. Well, as straight as I could between the bathtub and the toilet. “You were married, Dr. Haybee?”
He sat down Indian-style across the bathroom rug from me. “Come on. Call me Fletcher.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be disrespectful.” I looked down at my tee shirt and brushed at a wet spot on the chest. Dear Lord, I hoped it was water and not puke. I reached up to the countertop where the kid’s toothbrushes were set up, grabbed the tube of toothpaste, and squeezed a dollop onto my finger.
He shrugged. “What’s disrespectful about it? I’m going to deliver your baby. That’s pretty intimate. We may as well be on a first name basis.”
“Okay, then, Fletcher. Did anyone call you Fletch growing up?” I smiled before starting to scrub my teeth with my finger.
Rolling his eyes, he picked at a dark piece of lint on the fluffy white rug. “Yeah. It drove me crazy.”
I rose up onto my knees, spit the toothpaste into the sink, and quickly rinsed my mouth out. “I can relate. Everyone has called me Bump for as long as I can remember. Geez, even my high school principal called me that.”
“No kidding?” Fletcher grinned.
“Wish I were.” I pulled my knees to my chest, and leaned against the cool porcelain of the tub.
“There’s a certain amount of irony in that, you know.” When I gave him a strange look, he nodded at my midsection. “Beings you’re pregnant, and will soon have a bump.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” he lamented cheerfully. “My last name is Haybee, and I went on to become an obstetrician. All my nurses call me Dr. Baby.”
I giggled. “Dr. Baby?”
He blushed. “It’s pretty stupid.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I blew at a stray strand of my red hair. “So how many kids do you have, Dr. Baby?”
“Just one. A daughter. Martha.” Fletcher’s eyes sparkled when he said his daughter’s name.
“Martha? That’s beautiful. You don’t hear that name very often anymore.”
“Thanks. It’s my mother’s name. Have you thought of any names yet?”
I shook my head. “Ugh, no. I’m still processing the fact that I’m going to be a single mom.” I chewed the inside of my cheek and hoped he wouldn’t ask the inevitable question, but no such luck.
“Is the father involved? Will I be meeting him at one of your appointments?”
My teeth came down on the soft inner skin of my left cheek. “No.” When his light eyes probed mine for a second, I added, “Let’s just call this immaculate conception, okay, doc?”
His brow relaxed. “Hint taken.”
“Good.” I smiled, feeling some color return to my cheeks. “So how old is Martha?”
“She’s nine, going on twenty-five.” He laughed. “This morning she actually told me that someone my age should eat more whole grains.”
“You’re kidding.” I pictured a little girl with blonde hair the same sun-kissed shade as his, preaching to him across the breakfast table.
“I wish I were.” He leaned against the cabinet below the sink. “She’s just looking out for me. I think she feels responsible for me. I don’t mind. We’re buddies.”
This whole loving dad thing suited Fletcher, and I liked it. “How often do you see her?”
His eyes met mine again, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Every day. Martha lives with me. She only sees her mom every few months. She’s in the basement playing with Brian and Candace’s kids.”
Well, color me surprised.
The good doctor not only brought new babies into the world, but he was also raising one on his own? Fletcher Haybee was becoming more attractive by the second. Now, if there was only some way I could get his shirt off him, to check for a six-pack…
“Candace says you own a catering business,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.
I nodded. “Yup. Eats and Treats. I started it with my friend, Marisol, after my divorce.”
One of Fletcher’s blond eyebrows tugged upward. “You’re divorced?”
“My past is becoming very sordid, isn’t it?” I hugged my knees. “My life isn’t usually such a soap opera. In fact, for the past few years, my friends have been telling me to stop acting like an eighty-year-old.”
His smile made my chest constrict. “You act like an eighty-year-old?”
“Well,” I began. “I don’t knit, and I don’t own a bunch of cats. But I enjoy a nice evening in, watching some lovely television programs.”
“The Lawrence Welch Show?” he teased.
“Do they even make that show anymore?” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I offered him a haughty expression. “No. But I have a weakness for the Food Network. Or any cooking competition show.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “Do you watch Culinary Countdown?”
I sat bolt upright. “I never miss an episode. They’re all on my DVR right now.”
“I love that show!” he exclaimed.
“Who do you want to win?” I demanded.
“I have no idea, but that Ralph has got to go. Did you see what he did to that pork loin last week? It was shameful.” Fletcher shook his head in disgust.
“Wow.” I looked down at my knees and tried to control my grin. I felt sixteen again. Talking to the star quarterback. “Do you cook?”
“Yes. But not very well.” He sighed sadly. “Though Martha makes a mean omelet.”
He was perfect. Like God had tailor-made my dream man, right down to the rock and roll tee shirts, then sent him down to Earth for me. My stomach roiled, and I grimaced. Since I was two months pregnant, meeting Fletcher right now was a horrible inconvenience. How sick in the head did I have to be, to feel attracted to my obstetrician? Talk about wrong.
“Hey, Lex. How are you feeling?” Candace peeked around the edge of the door.
She’d never been very good with vomit, so I wasn’t upset she’d kept her distance while my stomach turned itself inside out. The last few times her kids had gotten the flu, she’d wound up hurling at the sight of their little heads in the toilet.
I looked up at my cousin and realized how stupid I must have looked, sitting on her bathroom floor having a pow-wow with Fletcher. “Sorry I took so long. Dr…uh, Fletcher here has been talking me down.”
She frowned. “I’m so sorry you’re so sick.”
I sighed. “Apparently it’s par for the course.”
“It really is.” She leaned against the doorjamb, and looked down at Fletcher. “Did you check her out? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Just a bit of ‘all the damn time’ sickness.” He winked at me, stood up, and offered me a hand.
I pretended that a bolt of electricity didn’t shoot up my arm when I took it. “Thanks.”
<
br /> “You’re a lucky girl.” Candace slid an arm around my shoulders. “Your doctor was right here for a quick check up.”
I glanced at Fletcher in all of his off-duty-doctor glory. My cheeks scalded. “Yup. Lucky. That’s me.”
“Come on.” She led me to the stairs. “Let’s go finish our talk. Thanks, Fletcher.”
“Anytime.” He drawled behind us.
Right as we started down the first step, I glanced over my shoulder, and he winked at me. “Ginger.”
I stopped, stumbling slightly. “What?”
Was he giving me a nickname? Wasn’t Ginger the hot chick on Gilligan’s Island? That meant this was a compliment, right? My heart skittered in my chest like a tween girl’s at a Beiber concert.
“Ginger,” he repeated. “Ginger ale. Ginger snaps. Ginger root. Ginger seems to help with the nausea. A few of my patients have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” I blinked a few times, my fantasy fading. “Right. Thank you.”
He returned to his game, and I followed Candace back into the kitchen. But so help me, for the rest of that football game, whenever the men burst into boos or cheers in the living room, I heard one voice above all the others.
I officially had a crush on my obstetrician.
Chapter Five
“I still don’t understand why women do this on purpose.”
Marisol stood next to a 4D diagram of a woman’s uterus, her full lips pulled back into a pretty grimace. Though we were in an examination room at Fletcher’s office, she wore oversized sunglasses that covered half her face, as if she were a celebrity in fear of being photographed.
Only she could make utter disgust look that good.
In the ten years since I’d met Marisol at a keg party in Brian’s fraternity house, she’d not aged by one day. Her perpetually tanned skin remained smooth and supple, and her wide brown eyes remained crinkle-free and rimmed in abnormally long, dark lashes.
She was gorgeous, and received male attention wherever we went. Including in the obstetrician’s office. When we’d gotten on the elevator, a man dropped his cell phone mid-conversation. She loved the attention, and often encouraged it for fun. Dating was a sport for Marisol. And if bedding men without the complication of feelings or emotions being involved were an Olympic event, she’d be a gold medalist.
Judging how she shuddered every time one of Candace’s kids touched her, it was safe to say she wasn’t exactly the maternal type.
“Oh, come on. Don’t you think it would be cool to experience the miracle of childbirth?” And then I laughed.
She shuddered. “Ugh. No. You can’t bounce back from that.”
“Of course you can. Women’s bodies are designed to go back to normal.” I shook my head and shifted in my seat, the paper crackling underneath my jeans. At least this time I didn’t have to be suffer through another awkward examination. Candace had promised that my naked-from-the-waist-down days were over for the next few months, and I was so relieved when she’d said it, I nearly cried.
There was nothing more awkward than knowing that hot Dr. Baby had seen my vagina, and would undoubtedly see it again. Repeatedly. And not for sexy reasons, either.
“Normal?” Marisol pushed her oversized sunglasses on top of her head. “Have you ever seen a baby being born?”
“Well, no.” Suddenly I felt embarrassed. Should I have? Where could I get a hold of a video of something like that? I made a mental note to check YouTube later on. “You have?”
“Yes. It was horrifying.” Her nostrils flared and she smoothed down her glossy hair. “We had to watch a video of a real birth in high school. It was their form of birth control.” She stopped petting her ponytail and held her fingers up to form a circle big enough for a basketball to pass through. “Worked wonders on my class. No pregnancies that year.”
“I’m sure it did.” We looked at each other awkwardly for a beat. “So why did you tag along today?” I asked.
Marisol shifted so her back was to the plaster uterus. The light coming through the small window reflected off of her deep brown hair, and I touched my own short hair self-consciously. I’d taken extra care in picking my outfit for work that morning, knowing that I was going to be seeing Fletcher during my lunch break. I put on a dark pair of boot cut jeans, instead of my Levi’s with a tear on the knee. I topped it off with silver shirt with beading around the neckline, instead of the usual novelty tee I sported. Marisol and I were doing some baking for a bridal shower we were catering this weekend, which meant getting covered in flour and frosting splatters. But today, I was careful to keep myself as tidy as possible.
Marisol brushed a fleck of lavender frosting off her sleeve. Oddly enough, even though we’d been working on the same cupcakes all morning, she’d effortlessly remained almost pristine. That was typical. She was couture, I was hand-me-down. She was put together perfectly, I was a hot mess.
“I’m here because Candace said your doctor is a hottie,” she said in a bored voice.
Wait… what?
I looked down at Marisol from my perch on the table. She’d come to check out Fletcher? Nervousness plopped in my stomach and fizzled like Alka-Seltzer. Men were rarely immune to the beauty and blatant sexuality Marisol oozed. And I wanted to keep Fletcher to myself.
Not that I had a chance with him. He really was good-looking. Besides, he was my obstetrician. I was pretty sure he viewed our connection as nothing more than a doctor/patient relationship, despite that I was drawn to him like a moth to a porch light.
“You didn’t come here to provide me with love and support?” I laughed nervously.
Marisol snorted. “Hardly.” When she caught my frown, she quickly added, “I’m kidding. Of course I’m here to support you. But I’m also here to check out this baby doctor who apparently looks like a movie star.”
The churning in my stomach sped up. “Oh. Well, he’s all right. I guess.”
Maybe if I feigned nonchalance, Marisol would lose interest, too. She was like a puppy, enamored until something newer and shinier came along to play with. The only distraction she’d ever focused on for an extended period of time was our business, and I was pretty sure that was only because there were no men involved.
“All right?” She pulled a compact out of her Fendi bag and began reapplying her lipstick. “Candace said you were falling all over yourself when he examined you.”
My cheeks scalded. Curse Candace and her big mouth. “I was not. It’s impossible to fall all over yourself when your feet are in stirrups.”
“You know what I mean.” She glanced at me, then went back to her lipstick. “You’re attracted to him.”
“No, I’m not. I mean, he’s cute, I guess. But I’m not really into him.” I looked away, pretending to be fascinated with the black and white photography framed on the walls.
Oh, look at that tree. That’s a nice tree.
She blotted her lips together with a pop. “Why not?”
Not going after a hot, available man was a foreign concept to Marisol.
I let one of my shoulders rise and drop casually. “I’ve got enough on my plate, I suppose. I mean, in about six and a half months, I’m going to be a single mom.”
Marisol dropped her lipstick back into the bag. “I know. Can you believe it? Like, everything will be on your shoulders. Food, shelter, clothes, diapers. All of it.” She laughed and shook her head. “I mean, holy shit, Lex.”
The jealousy in my stomach dissipated and was replaced by a rock of nervousness. Most of my thoughts over the past few weeks had been occupied by the reality that I was embarking on the world’s most difficult task completely alone. I’d lost count of how many times Candace has proclaimed her gratitude that Brian was a helpful, hands-on father.
This baby’s father wasn’t going to be helping with the midnight feedings. Or anything else, for that matter.
“Of course, if anybody can handle it, it’s you.” Marisol pulled her perfume from her purse, dabbed it on her pulse points, the
n offered it to me. I shook my head. “You’re very independent. I mean, look at you. When Nate left, you could’ve totally fallen apart. Cried in your bed for a year. And nobody would have blamed you.”
I looked at the small window, and wished it opened. Talking about my debunked marriage made me sweat, especially in a room the size of an espresso shack with a plaster uterus taking up half the space.
“But you didn’t do that at all,” she went on, snapping her purse shut. “You got back up, changed your name back to Baump, which I still think was silly, considering the name Smith is so much less annoying than Baump. No offense.”
I rolled my eyes. “None taken.”
“You started a successful business with your gorgeous, amazing friend.” Marisol gestured at herself. “And you’ve never looked back. Never taken him back for a pity hump, never—”
“Pity hump?”
“Yes. A pity hump. Come on, we’ve all had them.” She waved her hand casually. “After the breakup. Too much wine. Maybe some made-for-television movies about couples finding love in concentration camps, or some such nonsense, and whammo! You wake up the next morning with no underwear on, a drunken striptease video on your cell phone, and your ex passed out on the other side of the bed.”
“Good Lord, Marisol!” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “I take it that happened to you?” I asked from behind my fingers.
“Once or twice.” She shook her head. “You’re missing the point. The point is, if anybody can do this, it’s you.”
I smiled down at her gratefully. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“It should. You know I don’t hand out compliments very often.” Marisol laughed at her own joke. “Okay, seriously. Dr. Hot-to-trot really oughta consider changing the décor in here. That fake uterus is going to make me puke.”
“For heaven’s sake.” I rolled my eyes. “You have one, you know.”
“Yeah, but mine doesn’t have a giant, big-headed baby bulldozing its way through it.”
I eyeballed the uterus and crossed my legs. “Good point.”
