Page 3 of Not In The Christmas Plan
Ten feet away from the door, Ivy gasps.
“Wait!” She looks at Braxton with wide eyes. “I don’t have my shoes on.”
“Shoes?” Braxton’s face goes blank then slack with horror as he looks down at her bare, purple painted toes to the empty space on the shoe rack where the only shoes she can fit these days would be. “Where’d they go?”
Ivy’s chin trembles. “I don’t know!”
“Okay, okay. What about socks?” Braxton suggests. “The thick ones you kept asking for last week because you liked the way they made your ankles look are in the drawer. I’ll run and get them for you.”
Before Braxton can take off, Ivy’s body nearly folds in half as a contraction rocks her, but she still manages to pant out, “I’m not showing up to the hospital in Frankenstein socks when it’s nearly Christmas.”
“Baby, you’re in labor. I don’t think the doctors and nurses care about your feet matching the season. You canshow up with them stuffed inside turkeys and no one will bat an eye.”
It’s evident Braxton’s chosen the wrong time to crack jokes when Ivy’s arm snakes up, clutching his shirt and dragging him down to her level. “You don’t understand. I need shoes. Not socks, notturkeysor whatever else you’re thinking of suggesting. Shoes on my feet, or these babies stay in me!”
My sweet, level-headed sister has left the building.
Braxton gulps. “Yes. Shoes. Got it. Uh, here, t-take mine!”
When not full of pregnancy hormones and pain, Ivy loves her some Braxton. She’d be devastated if he missed the birth of their babies because he was busy getting stitches.
Good thing I’m here.
I step forward. “Don’t worry, I’ll find—”
“Got the shoes!” Grant shouts from another room.
Two seconds later, he rushes from around the corner, stopping in front of Ivy to ease her feet into fur-lined clogs.
Feet covered and cozy, Ivy visibly relaxes and looks up at Braxton with eyes docile as a doe while she smooths his shirt.
“Crisis averted,” Grant says, standing up and dusting his hands on his dark jeans.
Grant’s a handsome guy,ifyou’re into tall ex-NBA players who’ve kept their fit physique, with deep brown skin and even deeper brown eyes that carry the kind of warmth you’d expect from a mug of hot chocolate.Which, of course, is ridiculous. No one’s eyes should make a person feel like curling up by the window and forgetting the world.
Okay, the man is fine with a capital F, bolded and underlined.
He smiles tenderly at Ivy, brushing a kiss on her forehead, then claps Braxton on the shoulder with an encouraging, “You got this, bro.”
When his eyes meet mine, I swear there’s a spark of triumph before he looks away.
I barely hold in my scoff. As if finding a pair of shoes or hyping his brother up likehe’sthe one about to push two babies out of him makes Grant the hero of the day.
I shift the go-bag to my other arm and open the door to the garage, keeping it wide so Braxton and his dad can get through with Ivy.
Braxton pulls on the passenger’s handle, only to throw his head back with a groan. “I forgot my keys.”
“Got ‘em,” Grant says, jingling a set of keys with a Dallas Cowboys keychain above his head. “Got your wallet, too.”
With the flick of his wrist, Grant aims the key fob at the car and the sharp click of doors unlocking bounces off drywall.
Well, whoopty doo. He’s got some special knack for finding exactly what people need.
I grit my teeth and watch Braxton guide Ivy down into her seat. Once the seatbelt is stretched safely over her belly and Braxton is making his way to the driver’s side, I move in, “accidentally” bumping Grant out of my way. Itmay be petty of me, but the surprised grunt he lets out is satisfying.
The dip in my stomach from his heated glare, however, is uncalled for.
“It’s not too early, right?” Ivy asks when I’m back at her side.
