“Let’s get dinner this Friday.” Roman’s voice rumbles through his chest. “We haven’t had a date night in a while and Jade can book us something over at the new Italian place on Spring Avenue. It’s family friendly so we can take the little monster with us and then maybe take him to see our bench in the park afterward?”
Roman’s family date night suggestion reminds me of why I am in love with this man. He knows me so well and takes such good care of me. I’d love a night out that includes both of my favorite guys. I lean back so I can look at him in the eyes when I tell him just how much I love his idea, but he holds me, continues to hold me firmly by my torso to his chest.
“Don’t move.”
He pivots and lounges back on the sofa and pulls me down with him. As I lie on top of him, he runs his hands up and down my back. The beating of his heart sounds even stronger in this position and is almost hypnotic.
“Mmm.”
My eyelids flutter shut as Roman lightly massages me into a deep, relaxed state. Maybe some things I was going to do tonight can wait. There’s always tomorrow.
“Let’s hire a full-time nanny,” Roman says.
My eyes pop immediately back open.
“We have a sitter.”
“You use her sparingly. Let’s get someone full time.”
“You know I don’t want to do that. It’s bad enough we have a cleaning lady too.”
“But we can afford it, Duchess.”
Sometimes it bothers me when Roman uses the wordweabout his money. I never thought I’d be so sensitive about our financial situation, but I guess I want financial independence more than I thought I would. It’s not that Roman ever makes me feel that I have less of a say because he makes most of the money, but I am naturally prone to letting him have his way with buying decisions because it ishismoney. It drives me crazy that I feel this way, which is the very reason why I need to rectify it by generating my own income.
“You can afford to buy a private jet too, but that doesn’t mean you should buy one.”
There’s a brief and uncomfortable silence between us. Hiring someone full time has been a long-standing point of contention since my pregnancy that we will never see eye to eye on. He thinks it’s ridiculous that I won’t accept any help with Knox, and I think it would admit weakness if I do. I don’t need or want someone else raising my child. I can raise Knox and grow a business without full-time help. Women all over the globe do it every day, so why can’t I?
“If I thought buying a jet would be a wise investment, freeing up some of my time, improving my overall health, then I would buy one.”
“Then you’d be an idiot,” I say. “It’s an unnecessary extravagance that only speaks to your privilege.”
I roll myself off of Roman’s body and he releases his arms, allowing me to do so. The turn in the conversation ruined the mood for both of us. Calling him an idiot is tantamount to calling him stupid, which is something he’s never much cared for.
I leave the room and go check on Knox. He’s lying in the crib wide awake playing with one of his crib toys, and when he notices me leaning over the railing a smile brightens his face.
“Hey, peanut.”
I pick him up and we sit together in the glider that my parents gifted us. The chair didn’t exactly match the natural colors of the nursery decor, but Sloan recovered the cushions to make it work and now it’s my favorite piece in the room.
I’m grateful that Knox is hungry because my breasts are swollen with milk and I need to relieve them. As I nurse him, I close my eyes and attempt to hum a song from my childhood, but it ends up turning into the theme song of a television show.
Sing me a song.
Of a lass, that is gone.
Say could that lass be, aye.
I’m a mess. I can’t even get a lullaby right. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so bad at this or the fact that Roman and I just had a disagreement, but a feeling of sadness overwhelms me and tears roll down the side of my face.
I don’t actually see when he approaches the room, but I can feel his presence just the same. Roman is standing in the doorway, looking pensively down at the two of us.
“I’m sorry,” I say without looking up at him. “You’re not an idiot.”
“You’re crying,” he observes.
“I hate it when we argue.”
