Page 16 of Salty Pickle

I need a friend or six. All I’ve got is an unborn child and Matilda. Neither one is a great conversationalist.

I’m thankful for something to do. After I fill the cups with milk and organize them in Court’s mini fridge, I have no excuse to hide from him. I sit in one of the chairs since the sofa tries to eat me.

Court is super useless, constantly on his phone, scowling at whoever is talking to him, as if they can see his displeasure. Disdain. Dislike. That man is all dis.

He’s moved to a round table in the far corner of his office because Matilda has decided his desk is her domain. I think it’s hysterical and haven’t stepped in to move her from her perch.

As if I could. Once Matilda chooses a spot as hers, just let it go. Make a wrong move, and she’ll butt you with her head.

Yeah, even girl goats get it on like that if you cross them.

If Court doesn’t like it, he can bite me.

Actually, I might like him to bite me. I was hit with a wave of jump-me-daddywithin minutes of walking into his office. I wanted to dig my fingers into that thick hair and straddle him on that big office chair—and oh, here I go again.

The need is as swift and hard as an ocean wave tossing me on my back.

Like I wish he would.

I’ve heard pregnant women get wild and woolly with the hormones, but I haven’t felt it much until now.

And with all my chores done, the milk tucked away, Matilda clean and dry, all I have to do is sit in this chair with my feet propped up and watch him scowl.

It’s kind of hot, if you’re looking for a sulky bit of man-meat.

I might be.

Dang. I’m ramping myself up like I’m in heat.

And I’ve seen a lot of animals in heat.

Nobody acts right when they’re on the prowl.

I close my eyes to get his flashing eyes and perfectly trimmed beard out of my vision. My belly rumbles so loud that Court stops talking.

“I have another engagement,” he says abruptly and slams the office phone onto its base. He has no less than three of those phones in the same room. What a waste of resources.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” I tell him, setting my feet on the ground.

He only grunts at that, rapidly typing on his phone. “It’s been an hour since Devin left. The natural food store is only a block away.”

“Maybe he ran for the hills. You’re as bad as the goats in rutting season.”

“I assume you’re referring to reproductive copulation.”

Did he really say that? Reproductive copulation?

I’m overcome with giggles. We already did that.

I can barely speak through my laughter. “I meant ramming each other with their heads.”

He pierces me with a blue-eyed gaze. Will our son have blue eyes? Or my brown ones? Blue is recessive, but Grandma BeeBee had them.

Thinking of her calms me. I can picture her in the Colorado foothills, pulling roots for home remedies. She was the best member of my family.

Court’s phone buzzes. “It seems he kept looking for glass bottles. I forgot to tell him I’d figured that out.”

“I love that they’re in ‘Dill With It’ cups. Appropriate.”

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