Page 142 of Daddy By Design

“You what?”

He looked up from his screen. “Pregnancy tracker something or other. When was your last period?”

“Dude, we are not doing this.”

“What? I was just trying to figure out when the baby was coming.”

I sat down next to him and gave Gizmo a scratch. I pulled my phone out of my bag and opened my period tracker. It had a pregnancy component that I truly never thought I’d use. At least not in the next few years.

But here we were.

“Oh, God. Shelby and I will be having our kids a few months apart.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know.” The tears hit me out of the blue. “But like cousins. I always wanted cousins to play with when I was a kid. At least you had Macy.”

He picked at something on his hand. “Yeah. She kept me sane when we were little.”

I dropped my phone in my lap and grabbed his hand. “Nolan, what did you do to your hands?”

“I couldn’t get you out of that damn library. I guess I got ripped up a little.”

He wanted to get to me that badly? “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Tell that to your bloody fingers, pal.” How the hell hadn’t I noticed them before?

You’d been that wrapped up in yourself, that’s how.

I stood and pulled him up off the couch. Gizmo gave an unhappy chirp but leaped onto the shelf behind the couch.

“Hellcat, it’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Just don’t argue.” I turned on the taps in his sink and nothing happened.

“Gizmo.”

“God, you have to be kidding.”

“What?” He reached up into the cabinet where the on and off taps were and then turned on the faucet.

He’d remembered what I said about Gizmo, and he’d taken really good care of him since I’d had to give him up. “Nothing. Wash those hands. Where is the kit?” He gestured to the below cabinet. I found it and pulled out the peroxide and triple antibiotic.

“It’s not a big deal. I get worse helping Archer.”

“Yeah, well, if you want those hands on me again, you’ll listen.”

He held out his hands over the sink. “Do your worst.”

“Funny guy.”

Which also wasn’t the norm for him. Not that I hadn’t seen a few bits of humor inside of him before, but he was quick to press them down. Like he didn’t deserve to be happy or even amused.

I poured the peroxide over his battered cuticles and watched it foam. He didn’t flinch. Not that peroxide was painful, but he really didn’t seem to notice the pain at all. Was that because he’d experienced so very much of it?

“Hellcat.”

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