Page 67 of Interception

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t move a muscle—don’t make a peep. I stare at Coop, willing him to read my mind and not make a sound.

“They’re drinking. Or suckling. Whatever it is, they are both doing it.” I whisper, scared they’ll stop if I talk too loud.

“Good job, Mommy. Tiny high-fives, little dudes.”

“Right. Serious names only. They should have names.”

“What about, Aiden?”

“Aiden Danford. I actually really like that.” I rub my finger over his little hand. “Hey, baby A, what do you think of Aiden?” His skin is so soft, and as I say the name, he flexes his hand and grabs my finger.

“Did you see that? He responded to it.”

“I did. Hey, Aiden.” His cute suckling noises are adorable. “Good job, Daddy.”

“So what do you think for baby B?” I love the way he stares at the boys with such devotion.

“I like Blake. What do you think?”

“Aiden and Blake. They sound good together. So we’re settled? They have real names now.”

“I guess so. I’d like to give them middle names, and as Aiden was born first, I think he should be Aiden Cooper Danford.”

“Really?” Coop looks about ready to cry at the suggestion. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I was thinking about adding your name. Maybe that could be Blake’s middle name? Blake Porter Danford.”

“Now you’re going to make me cry.”

“What? You don’t like the idea?”

“No. I love it, and I’m all hormones, baby love, and husband love, and I can’t control the water that keeps leaking out of my eyes.” He wraps his arm around me, letting me have a moment, but we’re interrupted when the door opens, and Dr. Garcia walks in.

“How are we feeling today?”

“I’m good. Sore, but good. The babies are finally eating… or drinking.”

“And do we have names yet?”

“We literally just decided. Meet Aiden Cooper Danford and Blake Porter Danford.”

“Lovely choices. So, how do you feel about taking Aiden and Blake home?”

“What?”

Chapter Seventeen

Coop

A cry rings out in the quiet darkness of our bedroom, and it’s quickly followed by a second wail. Adrenaline courses through my body as I’m propelled out of bed.

“What the hell.” I stub my toe on the foot of the bed. “Son of a…”

“I’m up. I’m up.” I don’t need to see Zee to know she’s exhausted. She can barely form a coherent sentence. There’s a reason people don’t tell you what it’s like when you bring a baby home from the hospital. Aside from the fact that I checked the car seats were properly fitted and the boys were secure about twenty times before I pulled out of the parking lot, I drove at an average speed of three miles per hour the entire way home. A fifteen-minute car ride took a good forty-five minutes. Then add in the fact that every bump in the road caused my wife an inordinate amount of pain as she heals.

That was a week ago, and we’ve gotten about one hour of sleep between us—I’m not even exaggerating. I’ve had times in my life when college finals were looming or training was grueling, and I thought I knew what tired felt like. Now I realize I was a pussy.

Bone-weary. That’s the only way I can think of to describe the way I feel. The boys have no concept of night and day, and they want to be fed every two seconds. Poor Zee is in a constant state of undress with one or both of them latched on. I’ve had to hold her upright at times, as she’s just too tired to hold her own bodyweight.

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