Me:Should be. Maybe we can talk tonight.
Parker:Absolutely
“You texting your sweetheart?” Paisley grins. “I’m really happy for y’all. How are you feeling?”
“Oddly, I feel great. I barely got any sleep. I haven’t eaten anything other than a few crackers about eight this morning. And I’m out of ginger candies and peppermints. Normally, morning sickness would have me feeling awful, but maybe I’m moving out of that phase. I’ve been better the last few days.”
“Maybe. I didn’t have much trouble with Topher. But this little girl had me sick for months.” She coos at her daughter, who grins in response.
Watching Paisley with her children hits me in a different way today. I’m trying not to get too excited before the twelve-week mark because I know the possibilities. But that’s only a week away.
Would it hurt to get a little excited?
* * *
A pet emergencykeeps me at the clinic past dinner, so after texting Parker, I hurry to the cabin. I will not repeat my mistake of kissing him before a shower, so my plan is to do that before anything else. And like the sweetheart he is, he’s grabbing me a plate of food.
His truck isn’t home when I pull up, but I stick to my plan.
After turning on the water, I let it heat while I shed my clothes. The hot water feels amazing after the day I’ve had. I wash up, then shampoo my hair. As I’m rinsing, motion catches my attention.
I love animals, but not when they are soaking wet and staring at me from inside the toilet bowl. And I have nothing but a shower curtain to defend myself.
Praying that Parker is home, I scream. “Dumplin’!”
And that scares the drenched squirrel, who frantically races around the bowl in a panic.
Screaming wasn’t a good idea.
Chapter 24
Parker
Bluebonnet screams, and I shake my foot, trying to get it out of my jeans. I was changing into something more comfortable for the expected talk—which I hoped was a euphemism for doing more of what she started in the barn—but now I’m running to the bathroom in my underwear.
Thankfully, the door isn’t locked.
“What’s wrong?” I scan the room, looking for a problem.
Huddled in the corner of the shower with the curtain wrapped around her, she points at the toilet. “Help.”
A squirrel—or maybe it’s a drowned rat—stares back at me. I slam the lid down. “There’s a squirrel in the toilet.”
She nods.
“Okay. Let me think.” I swing the bathroom door closed because I don’t want a toilet-water squirrel racing through the rest of the cabin. But I’m not sure it’s even alive.
There aren’t many tools at my disposal, but I’m not leaving Bluebonnet alone in the bathroom with a squirrel. So I reach for the toilet brush and lift the lid carefully. Whether or not it’s still alive will determine my options for getting rid of it. And I’m not wishing death on a squirrel, but it would make this whole process much easier.
One poke of the brush answers the question. It sets off in a tizzy. I drop the brush and land awkwardly on my behind. Now I know.
I stand and run my palms down my thighs. “It’s alive.”
“Yeah.” She pulls the shower curtain tighter. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Stay there. I’ll get it.” I have no clue how I’ll get it, but not having a plan hasn’t stopped me from trying things before. Shoot, that’s kind of how I ended up married.
The wet squirrel takes advantage of the escape path I created and races up the toilet brush. Now I have a bigger problem. I lunge for the squirrel, not quite sure what I’ll do when I catch it. But my first priority is to get it away from Bluebonnet. I manage to get a piece of the tail, but since it’s wet and slippery, it slides right out of my hand. So all I have to show for my rescue attempt is a bruised ego.
