Sneak Peek Wednesday: Santa Baby Daddy by Paula Dombrowiak

“You don’t have to do this,” Ava says, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her coat as her eyes stay pinned to the clinic doors. “Seriously, Casey. You fulfilled your wingman duties by driving me. Just drop me off, and I’ll grab a rideshare back to the hotel.”
I catch her by the shoulders and spin her around to face me.
“You’re being crazy right now.”
Her mouth drops open and she takes a step back. “Did you just call a pregnant woman crazy?”
I throw both hands up in mock surrender. “Strike that from the record. What I meant was, you’re being completely unreasonable, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you go in there by yourself.”
Ava rolls her eyes at me. “Nice save, Third Row.” She does her best impression of my lazy drawl under her breath as she brushes past, “‘I’m going in with you, Mama, because I’m an emotional support golden retriever.’”
“Golden retriever,” I mutter as I lead her toward the door. “I’ll have you know that’s an elite pedigree. Show some respect.”
The waiting area is full of expectant mothers with varying degrees of attentive and not so attentive husbands. There are even a few babies in strollers or strapped to their mother’s chest. There aren’t any seats where someone isn’t in the seat next to us, but we manage to find two together.
I lean back against the wall, stretching my legs out, and trace slow circles over the back of her hand with my thumb because I will not be bested by the husband across from me who’s practically giving his wife a massage.
“It’s not a contest,” she whispers to me.
“Huh, to you maybe, but I take my duties very seriously.”
“How far along are you?” the woman sitting next to Ava asks, her hand firmly on a protruding belly about twice the size of Ava’s. Will her belly get that big?
I won’t be here to see it.
“Twenty weeks,” Ava says, and the two of them talk about due dates and cravings. The husband moves a stroller containing a sleeping baby back and forth.
I lean across the aisle, dropping my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Is that the Vista V2?”
The guy perks up immediately. The soul-crushing exhaustion on his face instantly vanishes, replaced by the unmistakable spark of a man who just found another car enthusiast at a minivan convention.
“Yeah, man,” he whispers back proudly, tapping the handlebar with two fingers. “In the Jordan Charcoal. Upgraded from the Cruz when we found out number two was on the way.”
I nod with respect. “How’s the independent all-wheel suspension? Does it actually absorb gravel, or is that just marketing fluff?”
“No fluff,” he says, leaning in. “Independent spring-action shocks on all four axles, plus polyurethane-filled puncture-proof tires. I took this bad boy over a crushed-gravel trail in Summerlin last Saturday—glided right over the rocks. Kid didn’t even flinch. Zero road vibration.”
“Clean,” I murmur, admiring the chassis. “And what’s the load-bearing capacity on the double configuration?”
“Fifty pounds on the main upper seat, thirty-five on the lower RumbleSeat,” he rattles off. “Plus, the undercarriage basket has a thirty-pound cargo rating. You can throw two diaper bags, a case of water, and your dignity in the bottom, and the front swivel wheels still don’t drag.” He nods at the stroller proudly.
“Solid engineering,” I say, rubbing my chin. “What’s the cornering like on a tight radius?” I didn’t get to test this one out in the store before I got scolded for drifting around the aisles.
“Zero-turn capability,” he says with a grin. “Handles curbs like an off-road truck.”
Beside me, Ava stares at me with wide, bewildered eyes, her mouth slightly open. “Who are you right now?” she asks.