Page 53 of Slots & Sticks
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We’re absolutely not supposed to do this. That’s what makes it fun.
“Operation Nudacris Two-Point-Oh,” Mira whispers from the phone tucked in Camden’s pocket as we cross the parking lot.
“Mira, shh,” I mutter, clutching my oversized tote against my chest. The bag shifts and lets out a muffled wail.
Camden winces. “He’s not even through the front doors yet.”
“He’s excited.” The tote jerks again, and I hiss, “You’re supposed to be undercover, Skinbad.”
Camden glances over his shoulder toward the hospital doors. “You know there are about twelve signs in there that say no animals allowed, right?”
“Rules are just suggestions for people who don’t have emergencies.”
He exhales, half defeated, half amused. “This is insane.”
“It’s love,” I correct him. “My dad needs a reason to come home. Skinbad’s the reason.”
Camden mutters something about regretting his life choices, but he pushes open the automatic doors for me.
The hospital lobby is all glass and polished floors—every sound bounces off the walls and multiplies. So when Skinbad decides to test the acoustics with one of his signature banshee cries, the result is apocalyptic.
The woman behind the information desk jerks upright. “Oh, my goodness! Is that—”
Camden doesn’t miss a beat. “My wife is in labor.”
“What?” I hiss.
If Skinbad wasn’t off the rails, I might enjoy that “my wife” part a tiny bit more.
He gives me a warning look that says go with it.
So I clutch my stomach, bend slightly at the waist, and wail. “He’s coming!”
The volunteer’s eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, sweetie—Labor and Delivery! Down the hall, second left! I’ll call ahead!”
Camden nods gravely, slips his arm around me, and hustles us toward the elevators like a man on a mission. Skinbad howls again, adding Oscar-worthy realism to our performance.
The elevator doors slide shut behind us just as the volunteer yells for someone to grab a wheelchair.
The second the doors close, we lose it.
Camden presses his forehead to mine, laughing so hard his inhales stutter. “You’re—” He gasps. “—you’re terrible. I almost believed you.”
“You started it! ‘My wife is in labor?’” I clutch the tote tighter, shaking with giggles. Skinbad growls at the movement, clearly offended by our lack of professionalism.
“I panicked!” he says between laughs.
Then Camden’s laughter slows, his thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Guess I got carried away calling you my wife.”
The word hangs there—wife—buzzing in the small metal box between us. My stomach swoops.
“I didn’t hate it,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Camden’s grin softens into something quieter, more dangerous. “Good to know.”
Skinbad chooses that moment to let out a shriek loud enough to wake the dead. The spell breaks. We both dissolve into laughter again as the elevator lurches into motion.
