Page 27 of Cold as Hell

I laugh. “Yes to that, later, but for now, let’s stick to the time-honored storm tradition of eating junk food for dinner and playing board games.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When I wake with cramps, I grumble at myself loud enough for Storm to lift her head from the floor and whine. I’m still downstairs, having fallen asleep in my rocker recliner.

I stretch my legs and tell myself I hallucinated the cramping. There’s no way I can actually be feeling contractions. It’s hypochondria. Realize I’m trapped in Haven’s Rock, and I start thinking I’m going into labor. The last two times I had a scare, there’d been plenty of warning signs, and I really had felt fine earlier. No aching in my abdomen. No weird sensation that something just wasn’t right. Definitely no cramping.

I’m fine.

Of course, as soon as I think that, my thoughts swing toIs the baby fine?

When’s the last time I felt movement? The last kick or punch or—?

The baby shifts, and I swear there’s a grumble in that shift.

I’m trying to sleep, Mom. Can you stop worrying? You’re keeping me up.

I smile and lay my hand on my stomach. “Sorry, Quinn.”

I sometimes test the names for size, seeing how they feel, even if I have a sense we’ll need to see our baby before picking.

“Riley?” I try.

My stomach moves as they shift again.

“Is that a yes to Riley?” I say. “Or another ‘let me sleep, damn it’?”

A bump appears in a kick, only to vanish again.

“Sorry,” I say. “Go back to sleep… Avery.” I purse my lips. “I kind of like that one.”

“Sure,” mumbles a voice beside me. “Avery works. Sleep works, too.”

I reach over and pat Dalton’s head. He’s on the sofa, stretched out with his head next to my recliner.

“Sorry,” I say. “To both of you. Sleep it is. I’ll see you—”

A cramp hits, strong enough for me to catch my breath.

“Casey?” Dalton twists to look at me.

“Seems I have a case of indigestion or paranoia,” I say. “Probably both, between the storm and our very unhealthy dinner.My stomach’s a bit off. That’s what woke me up. It’s fine.” I rub my stomach. “Sorry about the two cups of hot chocolate, kid.”

Dalton still sits up and flips on the side table lantern. “What does it feel like?”

I want to lie to reassure him, but I won’t do that. “Cramps. But they could be stomach ones. It’s hard to tell. Stomach, uterus…”

He peers at me.

“Honestly,” I say. “I can’t tell, and I really was fine all of yesterday. Whatever this is, they’re not coming close enough together to be contractions.”

“Uh, don’t contractions start farther apart and get closer?”

Another hits, and I try not to make a face, but they’re strong enough that I can’t help it. Dalton scrambles up, and in a blink, he’s hovering over me.

“I really think it might just be my stomach,” I say. “I can’t remember my last bowel movement. I bet that’s it. Can I get some help up the stairs?”

Dalton crosses his arms. “I’d rather not add to the tally of babies who’ve been born in toilets because Mom thought she had to poop.”

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