MacKenzie Fire(2)

He ignores me, jingling a set of car keys over and over.

“Come on,” Andie says, “let’s get back to the truck. It’s too damn cold out here.”

Ian’s already moving to get my luggage, but I run on tiptoe past him, making sure to hit the salted parts of the sidewalk so I don’t have to test my wind-resistance-fall-breaking theory again.

My boobs are bouncing in my lacey bra and I can’t help but smile when no less than three guys looks over to admire the view. I’m not ashamed to say that I appreciate the attention, which is part of the reason I chose this probably less-than-warm-enough coat. It’s way better for emphasizing curves than goose down. I refuse to be a Pillsbury dough girl on this trip or any other for that matter.

“I can get it,” I say, beating Ian to my bag.

“Nah, I got it,” he says, bending over.

I slap his hand away. “Back off, John Wayne. Don’t touch.”

He stands up straight and frowns at me, his shoulders going back and giving me great perspective for how wide they are. Holy mother of all things muscular. He could probably carry two of my bags on those things.

“You’re gonna carry that all by yourself?” he asks. “What are you … some kind of women’s libber?”

I look at my bag. It is pretty big. And heavy. But he’ll probably throw it around and then think he’s mister big man for helping me. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He has a lot to learn about women, and I’m just the one to educate him. If I get nothing else accomplished while I’m here in no-woman’s land, I’m going to make sure my best friend has an easier time living with this dude ranch dude. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me. Oh, yeah.

“I got it on the plane, didn’t I?” I grab my bag and drag it by the handle, muttering to him or maybe just myself since he’s probably not even listening. “Women’s libber? Who says that anymore?”

Wrangling my bag into a straight line becomes my biggest challenge since arriving in this arctic hell. The sound of the wheels collecting snow, salt, and slush beneath them makes me want to give myself a mental kick for not allowing Ian to carry it. Less than a minute later and I’m not sure who’s learning what lesson.

Andie comes up next to me and I let go of my bag with one hand so we can link arms. Unfortunately, walking side-by-side like this forces me to pick up her waddling gait. My bag and I have quite the rhythm going now: waddle, waddle, slussshhhhh … waddle, waddle, slussshhh… So much for my tight jacket getting me attention. Now I’m just getting stares of pity.

Ian chuckles as he walks behind us.

I refuse to admit I made a mistake. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. Besides, my pride won’t allow it. I blow my long bangs up out of my face so I can see.

“So, what did the doctor say at your appointment today?” I ask, trying to get my mind off my poor choice in luggage transport.

Waddle, waddle, slussshhh…

“I’m almost ready to go. Any day now.”

“Should you even be out here waddling around?” I ask, eyeing the patches of dangerous ice all over the place. Their pavement salting technique leaves a lot to be desired. The guy who did it had to be drunk.

“Excuse me, but I don’t waddle. I glide. And probably not. But I dare anyone to try and stop me from coming to pick up my best friend at the airport.”

Ian hisses out some air, but we both ignore him.

Waddle, waddle, slussshhh…

“Where’s Mack?” I ask, looking ahead, almost expecting to see him pulling up in a truck. He’s not exactly possessive, but he’s definitely in big-time love with Andie. She says he can’t stand to be away from her for longer than a few hours at work, especially now that she’s visibly pregnant.

“He had to help his father with some babies being born. Calves are dropping everywhere at all hours of the day and night.”

“In the snow? That’s awful.”

“I know. Cows have my total respect these days. I’m not having my baby anywhere but in a puffy warm bed inside a heated room with my husband’s gorgeous face hanging over me.”

Ian picks up the pace and goes around us into the parking lot, stopping down the lane of cars at the back of a pickup truck. It’s a monster of a thing, the tailgate sticking out several feet farther than the other cars.

“Do we have an actual birthday date set?” I ask, wiggling out of her grip and dragging the bag up to the back of the truck’s bed. I’m trying to figure out whether it will fit in the back seat or have to go in the bed of the truck when Ian grabs the handle.

“No,” Andie responds. “Doc says I have to just do it the old fashioned way. The baby decides when he’s coming, not us.”

“Oooh, fun.” I watch, cringing at how Ian so easily launches my bag into the back, heedless of its designer tag. So much for using the back seat. I shake my head as he casually tosses a tarp over it. He expects me to complain, I know he does, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction, even though the bag cost me more hours cutting and coloring hair than I care to think about.

“Need help getting in?” Ian asks, lifting an eyebrow at me. This is a challenge, I know it is.

“Please…,” I respond, rolling my eyes, “I’m not handicapped.”