Page 34 of Can We Try?

“Dough Daddies, obviously.”

“How are we looking on ice cream?” I ask her. We’ve started hanging out a couple of nights a week, watching movies and eating ice cream. I spend a good part of that with my hands on her belly, and I’m grateful she tolerates me. We’ve gotten our money’s worth out of the doppler too. It’s a rush to hear our baby's heartbeat. I’m addicted.

“Well, we might need to pick up more.” Her face turns an adorable shade of pink. “We’ll swing by after my appointment and grab some more for tonight. That way, we don’t have to rush lunch to get the ice cream back to your place.”

Pulling out of the doctor’s office, I point the truck toward Dough Daddies. It’s only a five-minute drive at most, and soon we’re seated at a booth, and a large extra cheese pizza is on its way with cheesy breadsticks with extra sauce.

“I’m glad the morning sickness is gone. I know I’m lucky that it was only a few really bad days,” she says, taking a sip of her water.

“Me too. I hated seeing you like that and not being able to help.”

“I hated you seeing me like that too,” she grumbles. “So, where are we going after this? You have an appointment?”

“I do. With a realtor.”

“What? You’re moving?” Panic crosses her face.

Reaching across the table, I place my hand over hers. “Not out of Ashby, just to a bigger place. I need more room for the baby. My house is barely big enough for me.” I laugh, but it’s the truth.

“So, where is this house?”

“It’s actually just down the road from Maddox and Brogan. Maddox knew I was looking and told me about it. I did a drive-by and called the realtor last night.”

“So that’s why you were out driving around when you called to check on me?”

“Not just to check on you. I like talking to you, Mags. I’ve gotten used to ending my day with your voice in my ear.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Which house?”

“It’s the white cape cod, just down from them.”

“No way!” she exclaims, leaning forward, which causes her breasts to rest on the table. Her “much larger than they were when I had my hands on them” breasts, and it’s a battle to keep my eyes off them on a daily basis, and even more so when they’re being offered up to me like they are now.

“Yes, way!” I laugh at her enthusiasm.

“Lachlan! I love that house.” She’s beaming.

“Honestly, I never paid too much attention, but the drive-by last night, I like what I saw, at least from the road.”

“So, we’re meeting the realtor?”

“We are.”

“What do you know about it?”

“It’s a three-bedroom, but has a full walkout basement with a game room, an office, and what could be a fourth bedroom downstairs. Five acres, so lots of room for a shop or for our little one to run and play.”

“That sounds perfect. Our baby is going to want to spend more time at your place than mine,” she jokes.

I want to tell her she can move in with me, but I bite my tongue. Baby steps. “That’s not true,” I say instead.

Our pizza is delivered, and we dive in. “Have you thought about names yet?” I ask her.

“No, not really. I was kind of waiting until we found out the gender, and then I thought we could sit down and talk about it. Have you?”

“No, not really. Like you, I thought we’d make a list together and do the process of elimination or something,” I say, shrugging. “But I do think we need to consider nicknames.”

“Oh, for sure. Kids can be cruel,” she agrees. “In elementary school, there was a boy named Frank in our class. They called him Frankfurter. Not the worst, but no. Just no.”

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