Page 129 of Lemon Crush

“To be fair, you were already pretty great a few hours ago.”

That won me a grin. “Finish getting dressed while I go unlock the back door for Kingston. He’s watching the dogs since Chick is still out.”

Wade drove his truck, holding my hand as we crawled through the speed traps and teasing me over my choice of pajamas for a water birth. My bottom half was covered in tattooed mermaids while the rest of me was swallowed up in one of his Hudson Garage shirts.

My socks didn’t match, but we did, becausehisshirt was on inside out and I think I saw a love bite on his neck.

Oops.

Neither one of us looked prepared for a birthing party. We looked hungover and sexed out. Which we were. We’d gone two more rounds before falling asleep. And I’d had three more mind-blowing orgasms because he’d decided to dive under the covers in between sessions to remind me how talented his tongue was.

With my wild curls up in a still-not-frizzy sloppy bun, wearing his shirt and my lips swollen from his kisses, no one would have any doubt what we’d been up to tonight. Not that it mattered. We were an official couple now.

I hadn’t been sure I’d ever go there again. But Chick had said I needed to tell him what I wanted, and that was what came out. I wanted him in my life in every way possible.

No second thoughts?

No. But I did feel like the cart might have gotten out a little bit ahead of the horse. He’d agreed to our coupledom remaining in the “temporary, check back later” category. And even though I’d told him I liked where we were, he hadn’t said the same.

So, something had changed dramatically but, like he said, nothing had really changed at all.

I was confusing myself.

Was this another shit sandwich in the making?

“We’re here.”

The porch lights were on and cars filled the driveway, including my sister’s. I headed up the three small steps to the porch, unable to keep from glancing at the house next door. The one that used to be mine.

Then the front door opened and Morgan was there, with circles under her eyes, a paisley bandana covering her curls and a handful of towels in her hands.

She stepped to the side. “Right this way, sweet ass.”

Her voice was low, but I heard it and grinned. “Thank you very much, hot boobs.”

She snorted as we walked through the foyer. It was like walking back in time. Not much had changed—well, other than the fact that all the furniture was shoved aside to make room for the large inflatable birthing pool now taking center stage in the living room. It was surrounded by throw pillows, two of which were currently occupied, and facing a sixty-inch flat-screen television.

Morgan glanced at us over her shoulder as gunshots rang out. “Bernie said everyone should take some Tylenol because Phoebe can’t decide what relaxes her more—Disney movies, Taylor songs or this. She’s been rotating between the three for weeks, but this has been winning since the contractions started in earnest. I blame you, Wade.”

I recognized the show. The large vertical disc of what looked like water but was really a wormhole to other planets kind of gave it away. “Stargate?”

“SG1. I bought her the complete box set eight years ago,” Wade informed us. “I told you we used to watch it together when she was little. She had a crush on the geeky archaeologist. She always liked those academics.”

Despite the lightness of his tone, his face was pale and his attention was entirely focused on the woman sitting in the birthing pool instead of the screen.

Phoebe was leaning back, looking fairly comfortable at the moment. Her hair was in braids and she appeared to be wearing a sports bra, a towel and probably nothing else.

“How long has she been in labor?” I asked.

“She was having contractions all afternoon, but they were irregular and pretty far apart until about nine o’clock. The doula says she’s been in active labor since midnight.”

Bernie was sitting on a cushion beside Phoebe, and beside herwas the doula—who, unbelievably, was crocheting a blanket of some sort, her hook looping through the variegated pastel yarn at a steady pace. Wasn’t she supposed to be boiling water or tearing up sheets to make bandages or something?

On the other side of the pool, two women I assumed were Todd’s mother and grandmother—the quiet one and the mean one, according to Phoebe—sat on opposite ends of the couch, looking uncomfortable but determined to stick out this very intimate event.

I squeezed Wade’s arm. “We should go say hello to Phoebe.”

“I’m only seeing women. Should I not be here?” he asked warily.

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