Bears. Rabbits. A tiny red fox. An Ikea shark, for some reason. “She needs options,” Petyr says.
“She needs one soft thing,” I snort. “Maybe two.”
“She needs choices. It builds character.”
I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“She’ll pick a favorite. The rest can go to the playroom.”
“The one that doesn’t exist yet?”
“Details.”
Warmth spreads inside me. The thought that we’re going to move to working on our daughter’s playroom after the nursery is done—it makes me want to grin until my cheeks hurt. Call meMarie Kondo, but doing this with Petyr sparks joy. There’s no other way to define it. So much joy I could burst.
I finish a section and lean back on my hands. He climbs down from the ladder to check the edge line and nods, deadly serious. I half-expect him to shake my hand. This is what passes for normal for us.
“So? How many stars?” I prod.
“I’m reserving judgment until the end.”
“God, you’re one ofthosepeople. I bet you give one-star reviews to your DoorDash guy if the cheese on your pizza is slightly askew.”
Petyr doesn’t deny. Though, to be fair, I doubt he’s ever used a delivery app in all his life. What with being filthy rich. He’s probably used to white cloth takeout.
I grab a small brush to do touch-ups near the baseboard. Petyr kneels on the other side to do the same. We work in silence for a minute, and it’s a comfortable silence. Warm.
“You know the dollhouse is too early.” I glance at him, amused. “She won’t touch it for years.”
“She will look at it,” he counters. “It gives her something to look forward to.”
“That is not how babies work.”
He considers that. “It is how I work.”
I grin at him and then flick the tip of my brush. A dot of white lands on his forearm.
He looks down at it, then at me. “Really?”
“It was an accident,” I lie, not even pretending.
He sets his brush on the tray, wipes the dot off with his thumb, and leans in. “Don’t move.”
I hold still. He reaches out and touches my cheek. “You have paint here,” he says. His thumb brushes just under my eye. He keeps his hand there a beat longer than necessary.
Heat rises under my skin. I can read him. His eyes go darker, his breath slows, and I know exactly where his head went. I’d call him a pig, except my head went the same way just now, and I’ve already thought about the word “head” too many times to pretend otherwise.
“Too close to the due date,” I warn, voice lower than I mean it to be. Though to be fair, this is the one thing wecoulddo without upsetting the little princess-in-the-making.
“Too close,” he agrees.
But he doesn’t pull back.
I tip my chin up. He bends down. We kiss, slow and careful. No rush. Just the shape of his mouth on mine and the quiet of the room around us.
He pulls back first. “Your last line was crooked, though,” he tuts.
“I amnot!” I gasp with fake outrage. “How dare you, sir? This Taskrabbit has a perfect five-star rating. Ask anyone in Brooklyn.”
