Page 70 of The Sculptor

Pulling over onto the side of the road, I snatch the milkshake from her hand, purposely not looking down when I grab the jerky, bobbing in the ice cream, and take a huge bite.

And gag.

“Oh my gosh. I seriously can’t believe you actually tried it.” She laughs, taking her nasty milkshake from my hands as I choke, forcing myself to swallow.

Gah, I hate vanilla ice cream.

And jerky.

I especially hate them together.

“You look like me in the mornings,” she teases, because even at six months pregnant, she is still getting sick. The doctor at the clinic said it was normal. Some women can suffer morning sickness well into their second trimester. Of course, Ray was the lucky small statistic, but it is getting better each day. I just wish I could do more than hold her hair back and bring her a cold towel.

“I’m glad it makes you feel better,” I say, finally able to breathe when I get the concoction past my throat.

She grins. “It helped a little.”

A little is more than nothing. I don’t think I can handle seeing her cry anymore—my heart can’t take it.

“Ah.” She gasps, her eyes lighting up. “Give me your hand.”

She doesn’t wait before she yanks her shirt up, grabs my hand, and places it on her belly. “Do you feel that?”

I pause, tuning out the distraction of the cars passing by us, and wait.

And wait.

“Right there!” She squeals. “Do you feel that?”

Under my palm, a tiny muscle jumps in her belly. “Is that?” I lean in closer and put my other hand on her stomach as the slight fluttering happens again.

My head snaps up, finding her eyes, which are filling with tears. “That’s our son, Duke. He knows we’re taking him home.”

“Duke.” A hand grabs my shoulder, and I jump.

“Yeah?”

I turn and find Ray watching me carefully. “You okay?”

“Yep.” I blink a few times, clearing away the memory. “I just zoned out there for a minute.”

She cocks a brow. “Care to share?”

I almost tease her and say I was thinking of her lips wrapped around my cock. But it was too good of a memory not to share it with her. “I was thinking about that time we felt Jude kick.”

A genuine smile emerges. “I remember.” She laughs. “He kicked my bladder the whole drive. We had to stop every twenty minutes for me to pee.”

“It was that nasty concoction you fed him,” I argue. “You upset his environment.”

She belts out a laugh. “No, I didn’t. He loved it.”

“He didn’t,” I argue. “I assure you.”

But I can’t assure her of anything because neither of us knows what he would like. We never got a chance to ask him.

We turn quiet, and I use the moment to get into the car.

When I’ve closed the door and started the car, Ray finally breaks the silence, her eyes staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “Do you ever think you’ll want more children?” she finally asks.

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