Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(44)

Slowly, ever so slowly, I pull the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Mom. Hi. I can’t talk right now.” My face heats with embarrassment and I can feel the sharp needles of a heated blush.

“Gemma. What in the world? Do you have a cold? Your voice is all scratchy. I was calling about Valentine’s Day. I know you don’t have a date, so I asked around and found—”

“Mom. I gotta go. Talk-to-you-later-bye.”

I hang up and drop my phone like a hot potato onto the bench. It clatters then falls still.

I put my hands in my lap and stare straight ahead at the snow, the cottage, and the tree branches screening Josh and I from the view of anyone walking by.

After a good five minutes of raging embarrassment and repeated thoughts of I can’t believe, what was I thinking, holy cow, Josh, phone, what???! I take a deep breath and turn to Josh.

He raises both his eyebrows and gives me a half-smile full of amusement and laughter.

“So. That happened,” he says. Then, “How’d I do? Are my skills up to par? As good as you remember? Or have I upped my game?”

Oh my gosh. He’s teasing me. He’s unbelievable.

I hold back a sharp, hysterical laugh. “If you ever tell anyone—”

“Yeah, sure. But is the problem solved?”

I pause and take in how I’m feeling. Embarrassed, ridiculous, but…not horny. And not angry, and not sobby.

A huge smile spreads across my face.

Josh grins back and his shoulders shake with laughter.

“Unbelievable.” I drop my head into the crook of his shoulder and smother my laughter in the warmth of his coat. It’s soft and smells like soap, and ink, and…Josh. I hold on to him and close my eyes and wait for the ridiculousness of the moment to pass.

Finally, I come up again and I’m able to look him in the face without blushing.

“So, erm, my appointment is in thirty minutes. You still want to come? You don’t have to, obviously.”

He quirks an eyebrow, then stands, grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Wouldn’t miss it. Everything that could go wrong has already happened today, so we’re in the clear for an easy go of it.”

I groan. “Don’t say that. Now you’ve jinxed it.”

He just laughs.





18





He jinxed it.

“What do you mean you quadruple booked my appointment time?” I ask Joy, the scheduler at Dr. Ingraham’s office. It’s nearly six now, and I’m starving, the angries are back, and I nearly cried at a hemorrhoid advertisement in the grubby waiting room magazine.

Joy rolls her eyes and sighs. “Technically, I septuple booked, mmm, no, what’s the word for fifteen? Fifteen tuples?”

Josh clears his throat. “It’s quindecuple. You quindecuple booked her.”

I give him a “what the heck” look, and he shrugs. “She asked.”

“Right. I quinde-whatever booked you. Except, it’s first come, first serve—”

“And we were here before you,” the woman behind us snaps. She’s in a shiny gold unitard, has amazing hair and is at least six foot two. “So sit your skinny little butt down, ’cause we were here first, and we’ll get served first.”

Skinny? I look down at my backside. I usually call myself curvy, or pleasantly proportioned. I’ve never gotten “skinny” as an adjective. Unfortunately, I think it’s supposed to be an insult.

I ignore the woman, who is about as friendly as a wolverine, and turn back to Joy. “They weren’t here first. They got here five minutes ago. We’ve been waiting for more than an hour, and two couples that came in after us have already come and gone.”

“Hey, bony butt, me and my husband watched you walk in. Sit down, it’s our turn.” The woman in gold snaps her fingers at her husband. He’s reading a car magazine, but when he hears her snapping he drops the magazine and stands.

“You ready to go back, baby?” he asks.

I look at Joy and hold up my hands. “Really? You’re okay with this?”

She shrugs. “First come, first serve. You know, most practices book ultrasounds in the morning, but for some reason this amazing place books at night. Super fun times,” she says sarcastically.

The nurse holding open the door to the back taps her foot. “Doctor’s waiting,” she calls.

“We could race,” Josh says to me. “I bet we’re faster.”

This is ridiculous.

The woman in gold has gathered up her purse. Her husband is in workout clothes and has arms that are veiny and almost as big as my mom’s annual Christmas ham. I’m not sure we could beat them.

Plus, I think the woman has the same reaction to the hormones as Brook. It’s entirely possible she has a fork in her purse and she’s waiting for an excuse to stab someone.

“Nah. Let them go, we’ll go next. Besides, you have to pick your battles. Some just aren’t worth fighting.”

Josh and I sit back down, this time closer to the door to the back. I stare at the Georgia O’Keeffe painting and tap my foot. My stomach growls.

“Hungry?”

“No.” Because if I ignore the hunger, maybe it’ll go away.

My stomach growls again.