One Moment Please (Wait With Me #3)(49)
“Never is not an option,” Kate says. “I think good ole Sue and Darren are going to notice when you show up to Christmas Eve Mass with a baby in tow.”
“Exactly.” I groan and prop my head in my hands. “I’m going to have to force him to tell his parents because when mine find out, they’ll demand to meet him and his family.”
“They totally will.” Kate nods her agreement. “But how could you force him? Dr. Dick doesn’t exactly seem like a man who can be told what to do.”
I stick out my lip. “He definitely likes to do the telling.”
Kate nods, her eyes narrowing as she taps her finger on her lips. “You need a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yeah…like…a backup plan for if he doesn’t tell them in a week or two. Something he won’t see coming.” A wicked grin spreads across Kate’s face.
“I know that look.” My eyes go wide, and a sliver of worry snakes through my gut. “That’s your book-plotting look.”
“Except this isn’t for fiction, Lyns.” She bites her lip and waggles her brows. “This is real-life plotting.”
Driving home on a Saturday morning after an overnight shift at the ER almost always puts me in a sour mood. Friday nights mean idiots are out being drunk idiots. Stoners are out being stoners. And it seems the rest of the world decides that once the weekend hits, it’s time for them to forget they have a brain and they’re completely reckless with their bodies, assuming that someone is going to be there to put them back together.
Tonight, I actually had a man come in because his genital piercing got stuck on his partner’s genital piercing and, when he worked himself loose, there was visible tearing.
I shudder at that thought and am suddenly hit with memories of the insane sexual questions Lynsey asked the OBGYN last week.
Fucking hell, could she have made that appointment any more awkward? Next time we have an appointment, I’ll offer to step out of the room before the doctor asks Lynsey personal questions. It was fucking torture. And the way that doctor went on and on about how good sex can be during a pregnancy just made the fact that Lynsey and I aren’t having it all the more painful.
I already think about having sex with Lynsey on a regular basis. I really didn’t need to be reminded about her heightened sensitivity in her groin area. My brow furrows.
The longer Lynsey lives with me, the harder this is going to get.
Living together is the practical thing to do, and I expected it’d feel more like an impersonal roommate situation.
It’s been a month since she moved in, and instead of avoiding her and sleeping in the on-call rooms like I’d planned, I’m actually coming home more often and picking up less shifts than normal.
It’s hard to admit, but I like being home with her. I like keeping an eye on her, and I appreciate her general presence in my house. I even like her eclectic mix of secondhand furnishings scattered everywhere.
I don’t like her fucking shoes all over the place. They’re a serious hazard and something she could trip over at any moment. The doctor made it very clear that she should be cognizant of her belly, so I don’t understand why we have to keep having that argument.
But everything else? I don’t mind. It’s nice to breathe in the scent of food when I come home, and her large collection of charcuterie boards that she’s always arranging things on. I even like the noise of her country music playing in the bathroom when she’s taking a bath. I’ve grown used to the hum of laundry tumbling despite the fact that the one time she tried to do a load of my blue scrubs, she turned them all pink because she didn’t notice her new red towel had gotten tossed in with them. The pink scrubs made me look like I was preparing for a fucking OBGYN rotation.
Aside from that, things are pretty relaxed in the house. I even sit on her ugly couch more often than not. It’s probably because I’ve never really had a place feel like home. Even when I lived in Baltimore, I had a condo that I bought fully furnished but nothing ever felt cozy.
I shake my head, pushing back memories of the East Coast as I pull into the garage next to Lynsey’s car. That thing is always a mess of books, toys, and files she brings home from her job. She and Dr. Gunthrie seem to really be connecting and I’m glad it’s working out so well. It’s lightened her mood immensely, and she appreciates that she can contribute to household expenses. Never mind that I haven’t cashed that check she gave me last week and probably never will.
As I go through the side entry of the house, the blaring sounds of Enya overwhelm my ears. I drop my keys on the counter and head toward the living room. The TV is on with some sort of fitness video. As I fully enter the room, my jaw drops at what’s happening on the floor in front of the couch.
Lynsey lies on a yoga mat, on her back, her hair splayed all around her, legs stretched above as she holds her pointed toes and spreads herself wide open, rocking side to side in slow motions. The position is erotic no matter what she was wearing. But the fact that she’s in nothing but a teal thong and a black sports bra causes seriously indecent thoughts.
I gawk longer than is appropriate before I snap out of my stupor. “What are you doing?”
Lynsey freezes, her mouth popping open as she turns to look at me.
“What are you doing home?” she asks, her voice high-pitched and panicky.