Page 131 of Good as Gold
“Hmm. Sir Hunksalot has a nice ring to it, yeah?”
I snort without opening my eyes. “It’s a deal.”
“Cool. Six hours to go before my victory dance.”
“No way,” I argue. “I got this.”
When the next contraction hits, I’m less sure. Each one is like a cresting wave, sucking me under. I can barely catch my breath.
But every time I look up, Matteo is there. He’s holding my hand or wiping my brow. He’s my rock. If you ever need to know how a man performs during a crisis, I recommend labor.
Actually, I don’t recommend it. By the time they ask me to push, I’m exhausted and practically speaking in tongues.
“It’s ten thirty,” he says as I pant. “You can still make the deadline.”
“There’s no deadline,” the nurse admonishes. But he gives me a saucy wink.
“Oh, I’m making the deadline,” I insist with far more bravado than I feel.
The nurse issues a lot of instructions. “Relax your face. Find a gaze point and focus. Let’s make some progress on this next push.”
None of that helps half as much as when Matteo whispers “Sir Hunksalot” right before I bear down.
I open my mouth and roar. The pain sears me.
“Your baby is crowning,” the doctor says. “Good job! On the next push, you can deliver the head.”
But I’m so tired. When the next contraction comes, Matteo lifts my leg and grins at me, and somehow I find the strength to push. There’s pain, but also progress as my body urges me on.
“Hello, baby!” the nurse says. “One more good one.”
I sag against the sheet. “I’m winning this thing.”
“You are,” the nurse encourages.
Matteo laughs. “Yes, queen.”
CHAPTER50
MATTEO
The labor book says that men can experience feelings of helplessness in the delivery room.
But I don’t get that at all. Right now, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours or that I don’t know a thing about babies.
All that matters is being present for Leila. My job is to be right here, every time she looks my way. It took me half a lifetime to realize it, but I’m not going to forget now.
Leila takes a sharp breath as the next contraction begins. I brace her leg with one arm and her shoulders with the other. And she roars.
“Baby girl!” the doctor says. “Time of birth, ten forty-eight.”
I forget to breathe as the doctor scoops the baby into a blanket and wipes off a face so tiny that I can’t see it properly.
The doctor cuts the umbilical cord and places her on a scale. “Six pounds, twelve ounces.”
Then I hear it—a high-pitched little cry.
My eyes are instantly wet. The doctor turns around and nudges me. “Steady hands?”
