Lucky Number Eleven

Chapter 28

Branch

"The doctor will be right in." The nurse picks up the file and gives me a sultry look as she walks out the door.

"I like her," Layla says, folding her hands on her lap.

"Don't."

"Why?"

"She'd fuck me in a second if I told her to."

She makes a face. "How do you know?"

"Trust me."

She picks at the white paper covering her bottom half. "This is so awkward."

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask. "I can go out to the waiting room, if you'd like."

Her head rolls to the side as she lies on the table and looks at me. She seems to be caught up in whatever she's warring with in her pretty little head.

She's done that a lot since last night. I guess I have too. We had sex three times before we finally had our fill of each other. It's so easy being with her, so natural. Unlike with most women, being with her is not a show of what I can do or watching a woman perform for me. I want to make her feel good, hope she knows how beautiful she is, and relish the fact that this woman wants to be with me.

Glancing around the room, I'm shocked at how calm I am. This place should freak me the fuck out, but it doesn't. It's almost exciting being here with her.

"I want you to stay," she says finally. "It's your baby too."

We wait in the quiet for the doctor to arrive. I pick up a magazine and leaf through it, not paying much attention to the words, only to Layla out of the corner of my eye. A few minutes later, the door presses open slowly and a man comes in. He's older, in his sixties, with white hair and a kind smile. He shakes my hand. "You must be Mr. Miller?"

"No," I say, standing. "I'm Branch Best."

He quirks a brow. "The Branch Best?"

"The one and only. This," I say, clearing my throat, "is Layla Miller."

The doctor introduces himself to her and takes a seat on a little wheeled stool. They go through basic medical information, family history, and a list of health questions that Layla answers without hesitation. I listen, realizing how much I don't know about this woman.

"You are the father, is that correct?" Dr. Howard looks at me.

"Yes."

He scribbles again and then stands. Pulling up Layla's shirt, he places a stethoscope to her abdomen. Her eyes pull away from his hands and over to me, holding my gaze.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

She nods, turning back to the doctor as he speaks.

"Do you want to hear the heartbeat?" he asks.

Layla nods, her eyes wide, as he puts a little machine up to her belly. I reach for her hand, holding it in mine. A little tear dots the corner of her eye.

Holding my breath, I listen to the crackle of the machine as the doctor moves it around. And, finally, there it is. The steady beat of a heart.

It's unmistakable—woosh-woosh-woosh—that sounds through the room is a heartbeat. Our baby's heartbeat.

Tears stream down Layla's face as she clutches my hand. I lock them together, entwining our fingers and squeezing hers back. We watch each other as the sound gently strums through the room like a lullaby.