Page 74 of Blueline Baby

“Mm.” She doesn’t open her eyes. “So good.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” She drags the spoon out of her mouth and finally looks at me. She knows exactly what she’s doing. The little menace. I can see it in the way her mouth curls up at one corner.

“That.” I point at her face with my own spoon. “All of that. You’re going to get us thrown out of a family yogurt shop.”

“I’m politely eating my breakfast, Jack.”

“You’re not politely eating anything. You’re putting on a show.”

She laughs. Then she takes another obscene bite just to watch me suffer. By the time I get her back into the car, the only thing I want is to see how fast I can get her out of those leggings and back into our bed.

That’s the plan, anyway.

We’re forty minutes outside of Dallas when she goes quiet. I hear her pull a long, slow breath in through her nose.

I don’t say anything for a few miles. Then I catch her fingers tapping on her thigh like she’s counting something, and I do a little counting of my own on the dash clock. Whatever is happening, it’s happening about six minutes apart.

I reach over and lay my hand flat on her bump.

It’s rock hard.

“Got anything you want to tell me?” I ask her.

She doesn’t look at me. “I’ve been having practice contractions all morning.”

“Since when?”

“Since we left Shreveport.”

I keep my voice very, very calm, which is not how I feel on the inside. “Okay. How long do practice contractions usually last?”

That’s when she doubles over in the passenger seat with a sharp groan. “Not this long.”

“Chloe—”

“Hang on.” She breathes through it.

And then Chloe, who does not curse in front of strangers and barely curses in front of me, turns and looks at me with her eyes huge.

“Fuck, Jack. Either my water just broke, or I peed on myself.”

I look over at her. “Hospital. Now.”

Here’s the thing. I’ve been through the NHL Draft and didn’t panic. I played in the World Juniors and didn’t panic. I do not panic.

I panic.

“Okay.” I check the rearview mirror. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

“Why do you keep saying okay?”

“I don’t know.” I hit a lever behind the steering wheel by accident. The wipers start flying across a bone-dry windshield, and I can’t figure out how to turn them off. “Should I pull over?”

“Why would you pull over?”

“I don’t know.” There is no reason. “I feel like pulling over is a thing people do in these situations.”