Page 18 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
I know that voice the way my hand knows my belly. It slides under my skin without permission.
I turn. Lucas stands there, hands in his coat pockets, beanie pulled low, a dusting of snow on his shoulders like the weather voted him Most Likely to Be a Movie Poster. He looks tired in the way people look when they’ve been awake too long with purpose, not with insomnia. He looks… good. Which is deeply rude.
“Hi,” I say, aiming for breezy. It comes out breathy. My lungs are like,we’re busy housing a human, sorry.
“How are you?” he asks, and somehow manages to make it sound like he meansall of it, not the default small talk. His eyes flick to my belly, then back to my face. “Everything okay?”
I bob my head, aiming for nonchalant. “Great. Hungry.”
He nods. A beat. “How’s Freddy?”
There it is. The name I invented like a place card at a dinner party. My laugh sticks. “He’s—uh—fine.”
Lucas watches me with that steady scan he does. It’s not interrogation, more like reading the room. The second I think I’ve sold the lie, my belly tightens like someone cinched a belt from the inside. I wince, hand flying to the top of my bump.
“Mel?” Lucas steps closer. “What is it?”
“I’m—mm—okay,” I say through gritted not-okay teeth. It’s like a very bossy hug around my entire abdomen. It eases, then comes back stronger, a wave I ride with a strangled little noise I did not intend to make in public.
Lucas’s hand is at my elbow immediately, warm and steady. “Pain scale?”
“I don’t know,” I breathe. “Five? Seven? Spicy?”
“How long have they been like this?”
“They?” I echo, dumb. Another squeeze hits, and I bend slightly, forehead briefly meeting his chest because physics. “Okay—ow—maybe not fine.”
The hostess materializes, eyes wide. “Do you need water?”
“Water, yes,” Lucas says calmly. He looks at me, attentive, the rest of the restaurant falling away. “Breathe with me. In…” He inhales. “Out.” He exhales. His voice is low, steady, please-listen-to-me-I-know-things voice. I follow because my body has decided it only trusts competent men and noodle dishes.
“It’s too early,” I whisper when the wave recedes, panic prickling the back of my eyes. “It’s too early.”
“Could be Braxton Hicks,” he says. “Could be dehydration. Could be your body rehearsing. Or it could be your body asking to be checked.”
“Checked,” I repeat, already nodding. The baby wiggles, a reassuring nudge against my palm. Please be fine, little star.
Lucas turns to the hostess. “Sorry—can you box hers when it’s ready? We’ll be back for it.”
“We’ll deliver it!” she says, thrusting a pen at me. “Write your address.”
My hands shake as I scribble. Lucas looks at the address like he’s memorizing it for later.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“I can drive,” I insist, because the part of my brain that hates inconvenience is stronger than the part that likes survival. “But my car is two blocks away at my apartment.”
“You’re not driving,” he says, already guiding me toward the door. “I’ve got you.” He tucks an arm around my shoulders, the other guiding, and we’re out into the cold, snow stinging my cheeks, the night brisk and clean. He opens the passenger door of a black SUV at the curb and helps me in like I’m glass and storm-proof at once.
“Seatbelt?” he prompts gently. I click it with shaking hands. Another tightening rolls through, and I breathe with it, counting, Lucas counting too under his breath like he’s training with me for a sport we didn’t sign up for.
He jogs around, slides behind the wheel, and pulls smoothly into traffic. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on the console where my fingers find his without asking. He turns his palm up, our fingers interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hospital?” he asks.
“Saint Pierce General,” I say, and he nods once, like of course, and heads that way like he’s been doing this route in his head all day.
He calls Amelia on speaker. “Hey, it’s Lucas. I’m with Melanie.”
