Bled Dry (Vegas Vampires #3)(22)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Excellent.”

“Come meet the other guys.” Sam moved to the front of the room. “Alright, get in closer here so I don’t have to shout. I want to hear your name, what you do for a living, and the ETD. Estimated time of delivery.” He grinned.

Corbin chose a seat to the left, not wanting to be front and center. A young man with multiple tattoos and a rather painful-looking lip piercing sat next to him.

“’Sup?” he said, giving Corbin a nod.

It appeared the evening was going to tax his English skills. Corbin nodded back. “Hello.”

Sam pointed to the man in a blue button-up shirt. “Name, occupation, ETD.”

“Dave Robinson. I’m a loan officer. My wife is due January seventeenth and it’s a boy.”

“Congrats,” Sam said.

“Thanks.” Dave beamed.

Sam pointed to the next guy.

“I’m Jason Sikorski. I’m a cop. And my wife is due February thirteenth. She’s hoping for a Valentine’s baby. We don’t know the sex.”

“Hey, surprises are good.” Sam moved on to the tattoo man.

“Travis Short. I’m in landscaping. Due date December twenty-eighth.” He grinned. “The wife is ready to pop.”

Sam then looked at Corbin expectantly so he cleared his throat. “I am Corbin Atelier and I am a research scientist. I am not exactly sure when Brittany is due. Sometime in April. I think.”

Every face turned to him, clearly appalled.

“Dude,” Travis said, shaking his head.

Sam’s finger came out. “First things first. It’s time to get yourself informed. A hundred bucks says your wife and every female relative you both have all know exactly when the baby is due. You need to share the load with her, man, show her you’re in this together.”

“Well, zis was a surprise,” he said, feeling the need to defend himself.

“Even more reason to get on board. She’s probably worried you don’t really want this baby. You been to the doctor with her yet?”

“No.” He wasn’t even sure if she had been to the doctor. He must have asked at one point. He was almost sure he had. She had said everything was fine, he remembered that, so he must have asked her something. Crossing his arms over his chest, he added, “I work nights. It makes scheduling difficult.”

Four pairs of reproachful eyes stared at him. Corbin felt the juvenile urge to flash his fangs and scare the daylights out of them. Who were they to judge him? They did not know his situation, they did not know what he and Brittany were dealing with.

“Well, you’re here. That’s a start,” Sam said. “I’m sure your wife will appreciate it if you pay attention. And if language is a barrier, we’ve got handouts. Your wife can translate it for you.”

“I am paying attention and I do not need a translator. My English is sufficient.” Corbin was completely offended. He had spent half of his childhood in England. He did not need a translator. Not to mention as far as he knew Brittany did not know a single word in French except for oui . And that he only knew because when he had whispered a very sexual suggestion to her in bed, she had responded with a resounding oui .

“So you guys know all about the birth process, all about the physical stuff.”

Not really.

“So that’s not what we’re here to talk about. We’re here to talk about what happens after that baby comes home from the hospital. Your wife is going to be exhausted and emotional. Excited but unsure of herself. You need to be there for her, with all kinds of reassurance regarding both her mothering skills and her appearance. She’s going to leave that hospital still wearing her maternity clothes and feeling pretty lousy about that. Make sure you’re considerate of how she might be feeling.”

Corbin shifted uncomfortably. The problem when you had the type of relationship he and Brittany did was that you could not follow the standard rules. He wasn’t sure it was his place to be telling Brittany she still looked attractive after giving birth, or if she would take that the wrong way.

This was why they needed to get married. He did not appreciate all these complications and uncertainties.

“Your other main jobs are going to be shielding her from overenthusiastic friends and family, and helping her with breast-feeding.”

“Um,” Travis said. “How do we help with breastfeeding? I mean, she’s got to do it, man, she’s the one with the goods.”

Exactly what Corbin had been thinking. He could not fathom how he could assist in that endeavor.

“A lot of new moms struggle to find the right position for the baby, and if she’s had a C-section, she’s going to have discomfort at the incision. You can help by getting the baby and giving him to her, and helping the baby latch on.”

Corbin crossed and uncrossed his leg. Was this man serious? He cleared his throat, multiple questions rolling through his head. Wasn’t it instinctive for infants to feed? Didn’t they just know what to do? And how did one encourage a baby to latch on, exactly? It wasn’t like you could instruct an infant via a directional pamphlet.

Dave was bold enough to ask. “What do you mean, latch on?”

Sam launched into an explanation that involved repeated use of the words nipple, areola , and lactate . Corbin wished the floor would open up and swallow him. Never, ever, since he had been in the presence of a cheap nineteenth-century prostitute had he heard the word nipple used so many times and with such complete nonchalance.

Then Sam’s wife entered the room with their six-month-old son. To Corbin’s complete and utter horror, she sat on the edge of the desk, lifted her shirt, popped out a breast, and demonstrated exactly how little Austin ate his dinner.

Corbin wanted, quite simply, to die.

He had wished for death many times over his long lifespan, but never as fervently as he did while Beth Adams rattled off breastfeeding statistics, her baby sucking industriously, mouth fully around the entire areola, as Sam was quick to point out, finger outlining the area in question. Corbin was speechless.

Determined not to see any more of her naked flesh, Corbin glanced around for a means of escape, or perhaps a way to decapitate himself. Not finding any, he studied the pale blue carpet aggressively. How in the hell had he gotten himself into this situation?

“Sex,” Sam said.

Corbin jerked upright. Yes, that was quite true. Sex was responsible. But how in the hell could he get himself back out? He was now not having sex and that wasn’t fixing anything.