Our baby.
I don’t care that Lexi’s belly is covered in gel, or that the tech is still moving the probe around the lower part of her stomach. I lean down and I kiss over one of her stretch marks, so overwhelmed and in love with the woman who gave me this great gift.
My wife gives me a half smile, the same one she’s been giving me all week. It’s too practiced, too clean.
Too fake.
Her eyes won’t meet mine and I don’t know why.
The tech hands her a tissue, and I help her sit. Then I clean her bump. Her eyes don’t leave mine, and my chest cracks open at the look in her eyes.
Fuck.
The tech leaves the room and a moment later, the OB steps in. Dr. Holt is warm, but no-nonsense. She sits on the stool at the desk, clutching her file to her.
“Everything looks good with baby. Your bloodwork should come back in the next few days, but Lexi, I have one concern.”
I’ve been shot and stabbed and felt less fear than I do at those words.
Concern?
Concern about what?
“Is something wrong with me?” Her voice is so small that I want to shield her from whatever is about to be said.
“All of your observations were fine, apart from your weight. You’ve lost almost five pounds since your last appointment. Are you still experiencing morning sickness? Eating enough?”
I snap my gaze at her.
She’s lost weight?
I study every inch of my wife that I can see, trying to figure out how the fuck I missed that.
“No, I’m not having any sickness. A little nausea here and there, but not like it was in the first trimester. And I eat.”
“You pick,” I counter.
“I try,” she argues back.
The doc smiles gently. “We can look at supplementing your diet if you’re struggling. I want you back in two weeks time.”
Lexi nods and slips off the table. I steady her, my hands on her hips as she pulls her leggings over her swollen belly.
She’s quiet as we step out into the sunshine, but she slips her hand into mine as we walk to the truck.
Guilt slithers hot through my veins.
I should have noticed.
“I’m taking you for lunch before you go back to the office,” I say. No more skipping meals or picking at her food.
She needs to eat properly.
“I don’t want to be late back.”
My thumb swipe circles over her hand. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re late back. The doc said you need to eat so you’re eating.”
She blows out a breath. “She didn’t mean as soon as I left the building.”
