theblanket. The baby was crying like it was the end of the world.
Clay was crying, too, but in an entirely alpha-man kind of way.
“He’s going to be fine. He’s big and pink and loud,” Simon said.
A moment later the afterbirth slipped out, making a big mess on Molly’s carpet. Simon let the blood drain out of the umbilical cord and then used a piece of superwash merino to tie it.
Jane raised her head. She had stopped freaking out. But she didn’t exactly look all that Madonna-like. “What do you mean, ‘he’?” she said, frowning.
Simon blinked. “It’s a boy. Were you expecting something else?”
Clay stopped crying. “It’s a boy?” He lifted the sissy pink blanket and checked. “Uh, how in the Sam Hill did the ultrasound technician miss
that
?”
“It’s a boy?” Jane asked.
“It’s a boy,” Clay responded.
“Oh, my God, Clay, we painted the nursery pink.”
CHAPTER
9
S imon stood at the small sink in the back room of the Knit & Stitch, washing his hands. He was surrounded by plastic bags stuffed with yarn. The place practically smelled like lanolin.
“So are you gonna tell me where you learned how to do that?” Molly stood in the doorway to the stockroom, her arms folded across her chest, obscuring the message on her T-shirt. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.
Her hair was all tumbled and curly and vaguely uncombed. She had pulled it through the back of her ball cap, but that hardly kept it under control. Her T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, and her oversized sweatpants bagged around her hips and ankles.
She looked like a candidate for that reality makeover show Gillian used to watch all the time. Even so, there was something incredibly feminine about her. She looked utterly fetching standing there studying him with eyes that reminded him of the paint pigment called “ancient earth,” light brown with just a touch of tarnished copper green.
His fingers itched to touch her hair. He wanted to take her out into the sunlight and study its color. It was quite dark, but strands of burgundy and claret ran through it. She would be magnificent naked, her pale skin almost translucent except for a dusting of pale freckles.
“You going to answer my question or stand there looking shell-shocked? Because I’ll tell you something, I am definitely shell-shocked. Childbirth gives me the heebie-jeebies. So I’m kind of blown away that you just walked right in and took charge. Where did you learn to do what you just did?”
“From Coach.”
Molly rolled her eyes like a teenager. It underscored the vast difference in their ages.
“What is it about ex-Rebels?” she asked. “You all worship at Coach’s knee. And I know he’s a take-charge kind of guy, but the thing is, Coach doesn’t know crap about delivering babies.”
“Oh, that.” He looked away. He didn’t like talking about this. It was like excavating ancient pieces of himself long buried.
“Yeah, that,” Molly said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“I studied medicine in college. For almost six years.”
“You’re a doctor? I thought you were—”
“I’m not a doctor,” he interrupted. “I never finished my internship or residency. And that’s all there is to discuss.”
“But—”
He held up his still-damp hand. “Molly, I didn’t do anything. When a baby has decided it’s time to be born, sometimes all you have to do is play catch.”
She chuckled. “Now you’re sounding like Coach. He’dprobably say you need a wide receiver with a good pair of hands.”
She glanced at his hands, and he had the sudden desire to hide them behind his back. Instead, he tore off a length of paper towel and dried them. “Yeah, well, as you may recall, I was not a wide receiver,” he said, dropping the damp towel into the trash can.
He checked his watch. Great. He was running late. Mother wouldn’t forgive him for being late. She had always told him that punctuality is the politeness of kings. He
Clay was crying, too, but in an entirely alpha-man kind of way.
“He’s going to be fine. He’s big and pink and loud,” Simon said.
A moment later the afterbirth slipped out, making a big mess on Molly’s carpet. Simon let the blood drain out of the umbilical cord and then used a piece of superwash merino to tie it.
Jane raised her head. She had stopped freaking out. But she didn’t exactly look all that Madonna-like. “What do you mean, ‘he’?” she said, frowning.
Simon blinked. “It’s a boy. Were you expecting something else?”
Clay stopped crying. “It’s a boy?” He lifted the sissy pink blanket and checked. “Uh, how in the Sam Hill did the ultrasound technician miss
that
?”
“It’s a boy?” Jane asked.
“It’s a boy,” Clay responded.
“Oh, my God, Clay, we painted the nursery pink.”
CHAPTER
9
S imon stood at the small sink in the back room of the Knit & Stitch, washing his hands. He was surrounded by plastic bags stuffed with yarn. The place practically smelled like lanolin.
“So are you gonna tell me where you learned how to do that?” Molly stood in the doorway to the stockroom, her arms folded across her chest, obscuring the message on her T-shirt. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.
Her hair was all tumbled and curly and vaguely uncombed. She had pulled it through the back of her ball cap, but that hardly kept it under control. Her T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, and her oversized sweatpants bagged around her hips and ankles.
She looked like a candidate for that reality makeover show Gillian used to watch all the time. Even so, there was something incredibly feminine about her. She looked utterly fetching standing there studying him with eyes that reminded him of the paint pigment called “ancient earth,” light brown with just a touch of tarnished copper green.
His fingers itched to touch her hair. He wanted to take her out into the sunlight and study its color. It was quite dark, but strands of burgundy and claret ran through it. She would be magnificent naked, her pale skin almost translucent except for a dusting of pale freckles.
“You going to answer my question or stand there looking shell-shocked? Because I’ll tell you something, I am definitely shell-shocked. Childbirth gives me the heebie-jeebies. So I’m kind of blown away that you just walked right in and took charge. Where did you learn to do what you just did?”
“From Coach.”
Molly rolled her eyes like a teenager. It underscored the vast difference in their ages.
“What is it about ex-Rebels?” she asked. “You all worship at Coach’s knee. And I know he’s a take-charge kind of guy, but the thing is, Coach doesn’t know crap about delivering babies.”
“Oh, that.” He looked away. He didn’t like talking about this. It was like excavating ancient pieces of himself long buried.
“Yeah, that,” Molly said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“I studied medicine in college. For almost six years.”
“You’re a doctor? I thought you were—”
“I’m not a doctor,” he interrupted. “I never finished my internship or residency. And that’s all there is to discuss.”
“But—”
He held up his still-damp hand. “Molly, I didn’t do anything. When a baby has decided it’s time to be born, sometimes all you have to do is play catch.”
She chuckled. “Now you’re sounding like Coach. He’dprobably say you need a wide receiver with a good pair of hands.”
She glanced at his hands, and he had the sudden desire to hide them behind his back. Instead, he tore off a length of paper towel and dried them. “Yeah, well, as you may recall, I was not a wide receiver,” he said, dropping the damp towel into the trash can.
He checked his watch. Great. He was running late. Mother wouldn’t forgive him for being late. She had always told him that punctuality is the politeness of kings. He
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