Page 44 of Salty Pickle

His palm flies to my belly. “The pains?”

“No. I’m fine.”

He lifts his hand away like he got burned. “This position seems better. Is it?”

“It’s good.”

His gaze meets mine for a split second, and I almost wonder if he’s remembering New Year’s Eve as well.

Then he pulls back and tugs the seatbelt down. He starts to stretch it over my belly, but I take it from him. “I’ve got it.”

My hand brushes his as I take the latch. Fire licks through me. Stupid pregnancy hormones. What’s the point? I’m already reproducing! There’s absolutely no point to having him in me.

And yet, as he closes the door and walks around the back of the car, I flap my hand at my overheated face. All I can think about is his body over mine, sliding into me, my hands clutching his shoulders.

Now I’m the one swinging. Tears. Anger. Lust.

“You sure you’re okay?” He’s in his seat, pulling on his own belt, and I still haven’t latched mine.

I shove it into place. “I’m good. Gina was nice, right?”

“I think we should have seen the doctor.”

“Next time. It was short notice.”

Court grunts as he reverses out of the lot.

We’re back at the farm in mere minutes. I want to ask him to come in. To eat lunch. For us to talk.

But I can’t find the words.

“Do you need me for the bloodwork?” he asks.

“No, of course not.”

“You don’t faint?”

“No, I’m pretty hearty that way.”

He nods. “All right. Then I’ll see you afterward at the sonogram. Are you taking a birthing class?”

“I already did, with my friends. They like you to do it in the second trimester.”

“I see.”

I should have lied, asked him to do one with me. Damn it. I have to think on my feet a little better.

He pulls up to the fence in front of my tiny house.

I unlatch the belt but immediately struggle to sit up in the seat.

“Hold on.” Court jumps out and comes around.

Then his head is over mine again, and he’s helping me roll to my side so I can push up and out of the car.

“I’ll bring something more appropriate next time,” he says.

“You have more than one car?”

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