Lightly tickling the side of her arch, I watch her lay peacefully. “You are incredibly stubborn, you know.”
“I know someone who gives me a run for my money,” she murmurs.
“So, who did you decide you were going to marry when you grew up?” I ask, curious as to her childhood crush.
A sudden dread passes over me, fearing her answer to be Rick. I really don’t want to hear that.
“Tom Cruise,” she sighs then opens her eyes and props herself up on her elbows. “It was because I thought he was a fighter pilot in real life,” she says while waggling her eyebrows and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“He’s got nothing on me, Hunny.”
She laughs and drops her head back before bringing it upright again. “I know. He’s not even good enough to be your wingman. So, what names did you look up?”
I screw up my nose, still not overly happy with my results. “Boyd, it means blonde- haired. I figure BB will be blonde.” Fucking BB, she has brainwashed me, I swear.
“I think that’s safe to say,” she smiles. “What else?”
“Billy.”
“What does Billy mean?”
“I can’t remember.”
“So why did you choose it?”
“No reason.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can’t hide my sly grin.
“Bryce, you’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. Why Billy?” Realisation spreads across her face “Oh...hang on a minute. No way. If you are suggesting Billy because of Billy Brownless, you can forget it. No way is my son going to be named after a Cats player. No way in hell. Pick another name.”
I laugh, she’s knows me too well. “You pick one then.”
“Fine. Brayden.”
I repeat the name in my head a few times. Brayden? Brayden? The more I say it, the more I like it.
“I was going with Bracken...” she continues, “...‘cause it has all our initials in it, like Bianca did. But I just don’t like the sound of Bracken as much as I like Brayden. Plus, Brayden means brave. Bracken means ‘Braccas’s Town’ and that’s just stupid.”
“Brayden...I like it. But I still think we need to see if it will suit him first.”
“Whatever,” she huffs happily, while laying back down and closing her eyes. “I’m telling you, it won’t matter. Babies don’t look like any name in particular when they are born. They grow into their names.”
I shake my head at her stubbornness once again. “How do the piglets feel now?”
“Better, thank you,” she yawns again.
“What about a middle name?” I ask.
“I’ve already picked that one.”
“Is it a deal breaker?” I probe, playfulness in my voice. Nothing is a deal breaker for us where I am concerned.
“No. But I think you’ll approve. At least I hope you will.”
“Uh huh. Well...what is it?”
She opens one eye and screws up her face, reluctant to answer.
“Tell me. But before you do, if you say Hird or Lloyd or any other Bomber’s player’s name, we will have to wage a deal of the century.”
“Lauchie,” she says softly, her eyes searching mine for approval.
Lauchie...after my little brother. My heart hammers in my chest, and emotion fills my entire body. This woman never ceases to amaze me, just when I think I can’t possibly love her anymore, she does or says something else that has me worshiping her further.
I climb back under the covers and bring her close to me, kissing her lips passionately. “It’s perfect, my love. And so are you.”
CHAPTER SIX
I know I’ve said this before, but honestly, I just love watching Alexis sleep. To stare at her naked back while she dreams, taking in every tiny bit of the beauty she projects during her peaceful slumber. For the past three months though, she hasn’t been able to sleep on her tummy. Therefore, it hasn’t been the sight of her naked back that I have lovingly absorbed like usual. Instead, I have been privileged with the view of her angelic face and her perfectly rounded stomach—a stomach that makes my heart beat like fuck every time I see it.
I carefully shift in bed next to her as I make myself more comfortable, supporting my head on my hand and lightly trailing my finger around her protruding belly. My touch is deliberately feather soft, as I don’t want to chance waking her—she needs all the sleep she can get.
Last night was exhausting for her, especially after playfully jamming with me and Derek, followed by an awkward attempt at Twister carpet with Carly. If I wasn’t mistaken, my best friend—and shameless pervert—found their gently tangled position highly amusing, and not in the funny-ha-ha kind of way.
I have no doubt that last night’s antics together with Alexis having gone back to numerous piss-stops throughout the night, is a result of her now overt tiredness. Obviously, this is bad for her, but not so much for me. I can’t help find her frequent midnight toilet runs entertaining. I know that’s sounds horrible, but I can’t. The grumble of annoyance she makes as she awkwardly rolls and shuffles herself in the bed is fucking adorable. Not to mention her not so hushed cursing of her ‘pathetic, weak, and sad excuse for a bladder’—it gets me every time. She’s just so funny...and beautiful...and adorable...and fuck...I’m one lucky son of a bitch!
Whenever I feel the bed shift during the night, I pry an eye open with a smirk and wait for the sound of her mumblings before jumping up to help her. I genuinely love helping her, whether it’s during the day, evening, or in the middle of the night. Of course she tells me not to and says she can manage on her own, and sometimes she even tries to get out of bed very slowly in order not to wake me. The thing is, it’s pretty fucking impossible for her to move without the entire bed moving along with her.
These past few weeks she’s repeatedly told me that ‘she’s over it’ and ‘thank fuck she’s not an elephant’, because apparently elephants are pregnant—on average—for nearly two years. Don’t get me wrong, I do sympathise with her lack of comfort and sleep, I just can’t help but find her frustration over some parts of her pregnancy somewhat comical. I mean really, how bad can it be?
I’m glad I just said that in my head. I’m also glad she is still asleep. Shit! Could you imagine the death stare she would graciously give me if that had, in fact, dribbled out of my mouth?
Obviously, I have no idea what it’s like to carry a baby, and I never will—cheers to owning a dick. And while our metaphorical glasses are still raised in a toast to my gender, I think a ‘cheers’ to my abilities in evading the evil curse known as Couvade Syndrome is also warranted. Clink!
Now, seeing that I am the proud owner of a dick, this leaves me no choice but to accept that my role during the whole baby-baking process is to just accept that everything Alexis complains about is justified: the sore back, the swollen feet, the aching tits, and our little precious one practising his soccer skills by bending it like Beckham with Alexis’ rib cage. I know when he does this because Alexis screws up her nose and rubs her abdomen in an annoyed yet nurturing way. It’s fucking adorable, and it makes me smile...which makes her mad...really mad. At the same time though, I do give her my sympathy and jump to her aid, because let’s face it, at the end of the day it’s the least I can do.