Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(107)

Eric spends half the time rubbing my aching back, and half of it staring out at the fat snowflakes falling past the window. When he calls down to the front desk to ask about road conditions, the doormen are not optimistic. “We don’t plan on making it home tonight,” they tell him. “The plows have been doing their best, but they’re running out of places to put the snow. Madison Avenue has at least two fresh inches on it already. Nothing is getting through.”

And when I come out of the bathroom, I overhear a whispered conversation between Eric and Duff, who’s on shift again out in the hallway. “No way,” Duff says. “The Mercedes has rear wheel drive and performance tires. We wouldn’t make it two blocks.”

“Can Max get an SUV up here? He must have a Jeep or a Hummer somewhere in that collection of his.”

“I’ll call it in. But he’s all the way downtown.”

Oh God. Eric told me not to panic. But I’m now starting to panic.

“Alex,” Eric says in a calm voice when he returns to the bedroom. “New plan. We’re not going to NYU. Mount Sinai is only eighteen blocks away. We can walk it.”

“Walk it?” I squeak. And before I get a chance to voice my objections to this plan, another contraction hits me. I sit down on the edge of the bed and rub my lower stomach. It’s tight, like a giant rubber band.

“Breathe,” Eric reminds me.

“It’s—really starting to hurt,” I pant.

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” he says in a voice that’s a lot less calm than it was a few minutes ago. “We’re going to put some boots on you, and a coat. And we’re going to go outside and see if we can get a taxi. If we can’t get that, I’ll call 911 and see what they want us to do.”

“Okay,” I agree. Eric has a plan. Plans are good.

I stand up. And that’s when I feel a popping sensation, followed by a flooding sensation. “Oh!” I gasp. “Water. Broke.”

Then things begin to move very fast. And by “things,” I mean Eric. First, he brings me a dry pair of yoga pants. Then he brings me a coat and a pair of hiking boots I’d forgotten I owned. Those must have come from the back of my closet. He even laces up the boots while I breathe through another contraction.

And, wow, I thought I knew pain before. “These aren’t fooling around,” I gasp.

“I know,” he says, bundling me into my coat.

“My b-bag for the hospital is in the front hall closet.”

“Bag?” he asks. “Okay. Sure. Let’s go.”

And then I’m in the elevator with Eric and a freaked-out Duff. “What happens if we can’t get to the hospital?” the young man asks.

“We’re getting there,” Eric says.

“But what happens if—”

“Shut it!” I gasp as another contraction digs in.

Eric glances at his phone. “Three minutes? Shit.”

The moment the elevator doors open, Duff shoots out, running for the street like a man on fire. “Taxi!”

Eric and I exchange a glance. “Just don’t say mucus plug. I don’t think he can take it.”

“Gotcha,” I wheeze.

Outside, there are no taxis. There aren’t any cars, period. We see people out walking ecstatic dogs and giggling children. There are even diners inside the restaurants on Madison.

But the only cars are buried in snowbanks.

Duff gives a low whistle. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Let’s walk,” Eric says. “We’ll go slow. And if you can’t make it, I’ll carry you.”

There’s no way I can let him do that. Not on bad knees, and not for fifteen blocks. “I can make it,” I say.

“Eric, change shoes with me,” Duff says.

We all look down at Eric’s Vans. Duff is right. His work boots are better suited to the snow.

“Okay, thanks.”

They swap right there in the snow, while I try to imagine walking to Madison and a Hundredth Street in eight inches of snow.

“This will be a story we’ll tell her,” Eric says, wrapping an arm around me and gently leading me up the street. “It was snowing when you decided to be born. There were no busses. No taxis. The subway stopped running. But you decided to come to us, anyway.”

“Okay. Yes.” Tears spring to my eyes. I can picture Eric walking down a snowy street, holding a little girl’s hand, telling her this story.

“One foot in front of the other,” he says. “You’ve got this.”

And I do. At least until the next contraction. And then I’m standing there with snow soaking my shoes, whimpering in pain as my body squeezes the air out of me.

“Lean on me,” Eric coaches. “That’s it.”

“Eric,” I wheeze. “I decided it’s a yes on that epidural.”

“Right. Soon,” he says. As soon as I catch my breath, we’re walking again. We cross Eighty-ninth street, and Eric helps me over the snowbank that’s blocking the corner.

The sidewalk here is thick with snow. “We should walk in the street,” I point out.

“Next block,” he agrees.

We’re almost to Ninetieth when Eric yells suddenly. “Hey, kids!”