Lucky Baby (Crescent Cove 11)

“I’m happy for you. Truly. And I’m glad you were able to make it tonight. I’m honored to be the kid’s godfather.”

“About that—”

I raised a brow.

He sighed and smiled. “We’re thrilled you agreed to do it.”

“Agreed? I strong-armed you into it.” I grinned. “And when I marry Ruby, I’ll ask you to return the favor.”

Jesus, what the hell was I saying? Marrying her was one thing. But needing godfather services meant…

No.

Oh, no, no, no.

Before I could incriminate myself further, I crossed the beach back toward the house to find my future wife.

And future not anything else.

I found her in the kitchen, her head bent as she methodically cut something with a pair of industrial-sized scissors. I didn’t know if she’d still be on the phone, but she definitely was not. And she appeared to be doing some kind of arts and crafts with scissors created for a gorilla.

Her long fall of red hair tumbled forward to shield her

face while she carefully cut the glossy pieces slipping to the floor like shrapnel.

I stepped forward and she swore, her head jerking up as she dropped the scissors. She flushed the color of her hair and jammed her forefinger in her mouth. “What do you want?”

“Always sweetness and light, Ruby.”

“Quit the ‘Ruby’ stuff. I have an actual name.”

Whatever progress toward friendship we’d made seemed to have been erased with one phone call.

“Let me see that finger.” I came around the island toward her, caught between amusement and annoyance when she held it to her chest and backed away.

“No.”

Every step forward I took, she took one back until she was edging around to the other side of the island.

“Ruby.” I let out a baffled laugh. “C’mon. At least rinse it off. You’re a big girl.” I went to the sink and turned on the cool water.

“It’s fine. I do a million things worse to myself every day. I almost hacked off a finger half a dozen times.”

“Is that all? You must play it safe at work.”

She marched forward and stuck her finger under the water, wincing only slightly. “It’s basically just a paper cut. See?”

She wasn’t wrong, but I still went down the hall to her bathroom and dug through the medicine cabinet until I found the banged-up tube of Neosporin and a Band-Aid.

When I returned, she was still standing with her hand under the water, her gaze miles away.

“Think this will help you avoid stitches.” I held up my items and her head whipped toward mine.

“Stitches—oh, shut up.”

“You first. Turn that off.” She’d shifted the stream over to ice cold. “You’re going to lose circulation in your fingers.”

Shockingly, she did as she was told, although she growled when I wrapped her hand in a dishtowel to dry it.