Page 13 of A Cozy Holiday
Then it all floods back: pleather pants on the snowmobile, Jamie with that handlebar mustache, and lots and lots of wine after I tried to make myself cry by cutting up some onions and huffing the scraps. No tears, though. Maybe I really am an ice queen.
My throat burns with the frigid air and maybe something else.
The knocking comes again, more rapidly this time.“I’m sorry to wake you, but I think one of my reindeer is in labor.”
I sober up instantly.
Labor.ReindeerLabor.
I wrap myself in my blanket and fling open the door to find Jamie in flannel pajamas and a snow jacket, holding a flashlight and a bag.
“I’m so sorry, Joy. I wouldn’t wake you if it wasn’t important. She’s just making a low belting sound, and our old vet, Cathy, who moved to Florida last month, said those sounds usually mean it’s starting, and—”He stops midsentence, his mouth still open. His eyes have gone very, very wide.
I follow his gaze down and—
Oh.
Oh no.
The flashlight beam is pointed directly at me, and the red silk slip is apparently very, extremely, catastrophically sheer in direct light. I can see the outline ofeverything.
His throat works.
For one insane second, neither of us moves.
“I’ll help,” I say. “Just give me a sec to grab clothes.”
“Right. Yes. Clothes.” His voice comes out strangled. “Good idea. Clothes are—that’s—yes.” He’s staring very intently at a point somewhere past my left shoulder.
I shut the door on whatever that sentence was trying to become.
My face is on fire. My entire body is on fire. I just answered the door basically naked in front of Jamie Wilder while he’s having a legitimate emergency, and now he’s seen everything, and I have to go deliver a reindeer baby while knowing he’s seen everything, and oh my god.
“Focus,” I hiss at myself.
All six of my suitcases are open. Their contents have spilled everywhere. I spot my scrub pants and yank them on over the slip. An old hoodie from vet school goes on top.
“Ready,” I declare, stepping outside.
“Thank you, really.” He’s already walking through the snow toward the barn, flashlight beam cutting through the dark.
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, jogging to catch up. The morning air wakes me up in an instant. “It’s literally my job.”
“At four in the morning?”
“Babies don’t check the clock.”
He glances back at me. Just a quick look, but I catch it. The way his eyes drop for a fraction of a second before he jerks them forward again.
My stomach does something complicated.
“So,” I say, casually scanning my mind for every question I’d ask a client bringing in a pregnant animal, “how far along is she?”
“Nearly seven months. Cathy said she’s due anytime this month.”
“Okay.” I’m glad he added the last bit because I actually don’t know how long reindeer gestation lasts. “Animals usually give birth in the spring? Why is she pregnant?”
Jamie glances back at me. “Tried for years to get her pregnant, but nothing took. This year, we mixed her in a pen, and of course, one of the males must’ve done the deed.”
