“It’s abrand, Nash. Get with the aesthetic.”
He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like“you’re the aesthetic”and moves to stoke the fire. The baby kicks again, hard, and I wince.
“Little menace,” I mutter, rubbing my stomach.
Nash’s eyes flick to me. Soft now. Serious.
“You okay?”
I nod.
But something in his face shifts.
He kneels in front of me. Hands on my thighs. Chin on my belly like he’s listening for Morse code.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough, quiet. “You’re doing amazing.”
I blink.
Tears threaten.
I blame the hormones. Or the firelight. Or the stupid, wonderful man who somehow made me fall headfirst into this insane, snow-globe life.
“You’re not allowed to be sweet right now,” I sniff, swiping at my eyes. “I’m mad at you.”
“For what?”
“For being smug. And sexy. And smug about being sexy.”
He smirks. “You forgot handsy.”
“I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to encourage it.”
Too late. He’s already sliding one palm beneath my sweater.
I slap it away.
“Nash.The cookies. The camera crew’s coming for the New Year’s shoot.”
“They’ll survive.”
“I won’t.”
“Then sit back, snowflake. I’ll bake.”
“You can’t bake.”
“I’ll improvise.”
“You tried to use sawdust as cinnamon last time.”
“Onetime.”
I laugh. Loud and shameless.
He grins like it’s the only sound that matters.
We’re loud. We’re chaotic.
